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FRANCIS  COBURN  MARSHALL 


•Haf«SS^^^W3f: 


POEMS 
ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS 


Of  this  Edition,  on  Deckle  Edge  Paper,  with  Etchings 
on  Handmade  Paper,  Seven  Hundred  and  Fifty 
Copies  ivere  printed  for  England  and  America. 


POEMS 

ON    SEVERAL   OCCASIONS 

BY 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

NEW  EDITION  REVISED  AND  ENLARGED 

Illustrations 


IN   TWO    VOLUMES 

VOL.  II. 


NEW   YORK:    DODD,  MEAD 
AND    COMPANY  .    ...    1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


CoJlega 
Library 

PR 


"  At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre" 
Good  Folk,  we  present  you, 

With  the  pick  of  our  quire  — 
And  we  hope  to  content  you  ! 

Here  be  Ballad  and  Song, 
The  fruits  of  our  leisure, 

Some  short  and  some  long,  — 
May  they  all  give  you  pleasure  ! 

But  if,  -when  you  read, 

They  should  fail  to  restore  you, 
Farewell,  and  God-speed  — 

The  world  is  before  you  ! 


1181383 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE;  — 

The  Ladies  of  St.  James's 3 

The  Old  Sedan  Chair 6 

To  an  Intrusive  Butterfly 9 

The  Cure's  Progress n 

The  Masque  of  the  Months 13 

Two  Sermons 17 

"Au  Revoir  " 19 

The  Carver  and  the  Caliph 26 

To  an  Unknown  Bust  in  the  British  Museum  ...  29 

Molly  Trefusis ....  32 

At  the  Convent  Gate 36 

The  Milkmaid        38 

An  Old  Fish-Pond 40 

An  Eastern  Apologue 43 

To  a  Missal  of  the  Thirteenth  Century 45 

A  Revolutionary  Relic 48 

A  Madrigal 54 

A  Song  to  the  Lute 56 

A  Garden  Song 58 

A  Chapter  of  Froissart 60 

vii 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE  (continued). 

To  the  Mammoth  Tortoise 64 

A  Roman  "  Round-Robin  " 66 

Verses  to  Order 68 

A  Legacy 70 

"  Little  Blue  Ribbons  " 72 

Lines  to  a  Stupid  Picture 74 

A  Fairy  Tale 76 

To  a  Child 78 

Household  Art       80 

The  Distressed  Poet 81 

Jocosa  Lyra 83 

My  Books 85 

The  Book-Plate's  Petition 87 

Palomydes 89 

Andre  le  Chapelain 91 

The  Water  of  Gold 95 

A  Fancy  from  Fontenelle 97 

Don  Quixote 98 

A  Broken  Sword 99 

The  Poet's  Seat 101 

The  Lost  Elixir 104 

MEMORIAL  VERSES  :  — 

A  Dialogue  (Alexander  Pope) 107 

A  Familiar  Epistle  (William  Hogarth) 112 

Henry  Fielding 115 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 119 

Charles  George  Gordon 120 

viii 


CONTENTS. 

PAGK 

MEMORIAL  VERSES  (continued). 

Victor  Hugo 121 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 122 

FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART:  — 

The  Poet  and  the  Critics 127 

The  Toyman 130 

The  Successful  Author 133 

The  Dilettant 136 

The  Two  Painters 138 

The  Claims  of  the  Muse 140 

The  'Squire  at  Vauxhall .     .  144 

The  Climacteric 149 

TALES  IN  RHYME  :  — 

The  Virgin  with  the  Bells 155 

A  Tale  of  Polypheme 159 

A  Story  from  a  Dictionary 170 

The  Water  Cure 178 

The  Noble  Patron ,     ....  184 

VERS  DE  SOCIETE  •  — 

Incognita ig-j 

Dora  versus  Rose 197 

Ad  Rosam 200 


Outward  Bound 


205 


In  the  Royal  Academy 208 

The  Last  Despatch 213 

"  Premiers  Amours  " 216 

ix 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
VERS  DE  SOCIETY  (continued'). 

The  Screen  in  the  Lumber  Room 219 

Daisy's  Valentines 221 

In  Town 224 

A  Sonnet  in  Dialogue 227 

Growing  Gray 229 

VARIA:  — 

The  Maltworm's  Madrigal 233 

An  April  Pastoral 236 

A  New  Song  of  the  Spring  Gardens 237 

A  Love  Song,  1700 239 

Of  his  Mistress 240 

The  Nameless  Charm 242 

To  Phidyle 243 

To  his  Book 244 

For  a  Copy  of  Herrick 246 

With  a  Volume  of  Verse 247 

For  the  Avery  "  Knickerbocker  " 248 

To  a  Pastoral  Poet 250 

"  Sat  est  Scripsisse  " 251 

PROLOGUES  AND  EPILOGUES  :  — 

Prologue  and  Envoi  to  Abbey's  Edition  of  "She 

Stoops  to  Conquer  " 257 

Prologue  and  Epilogue  to  Abbey's  "  Quiet  Life  "    .  264 


NOTES 271 

x 


AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  LYRE. 


VOL.  II. —  I 


THE    LADIES   OF   ST.  JAMES'S. 

A    PROPER   NEW    BALLAD   OF   THE   COUNTRY   AND 
THE   TOWN. 

"  Fhyllida  anio  ante  alias." 

VlRG. 


T^HE  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Go  swinging  to  the  play  ; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them, 

With  a  "  Stand  by  I     Clear  the  way  ! 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  1 

She  takes  her  buckled  shoon, 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Wear  satin  on  their  backs  ; 
They  sit  all  night  at  Ombre, 

With  candles  all  of  wax  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  1 

She  dons  her  russet  gown, 
And  runs  to  gather  May  dew 

Before  the  world  is  down. 
3 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  1 

They  are  so  fine  and  fair, 
You  'd  think  a  box  of  essences 

Was  broken  in  the  air: 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  I 

The  breath  of  heath  and  furze, 
When  breezes  blow  at  morning, 

Is  not  so  fresh  as  hers. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

They're  painted  to  the  eyes  ; 
Their  white  it  stays  for  ever, 

Their  red  it  never  dies  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  I 

Her  colour  comes  and  goes  ; 
It  trembles  to  a  lily,  — 

It  wavers  to  a  rose. 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

You  scarce  can  understand 
The  half  of  all  their  speeches, 

Their  phrases  are  so  grand  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida ! 

Her  shy  and  simple  words 
Are  clear  as  after  rain-drops 

The  music  of  the  birds. 
4 


THE  LADIES  OF  ST.  JAMES'S. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  1 

They  have  their  fits  and  freaks  ; 
They  smile  on  you  —  for  seconds, 

They  frown  on  you  —  for  weeks  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  1 

Come  either  storm  or  shine, 
From  Shrove-tide  unto  Shrove-tide, 

Is  always  true  —  and  mine. 


My  Phyllida  1  my  Phyllida  1 

I  care  not  though  they  heap 
The  hearts  of  all  St.  James's, 

And  give  me  all  to  keep  ; 
I  care  not  whose  the  beauties 

Of  all  the  world  may  be, 
For  Phyllida  — for  Phyllida 

Is  all  the  world  to  me  1 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 


THE   OLD   SEDAN    CHAIR. 

"  Whafs  not  destroyed  by  Times  devouring  Hand? 
Where's  Troy,  and  where 's  the  May -Pole  in  the  Strand?  " 

BRAMSTON'S  "ART  OF  POLITICKS." 

TT  stands  in  the  stable-yard,  under  the  eaves, 
Propped  up  by  a  broom-stick  and  covered 

with  leaves  : 

It  once  was  the  pride  of  the  gay  and  the  fair, 
But  now  'tis  a  ruin,  —  that  old  Sedan  chair ! 


It  is  battered  and  tattered,  — it  little  avails 
That  once  it  was  lacquered,  and  glistened  with 

nails  ; 

For  its  leather  is  cracked  into  lozenge  and  square, 
Like  a  canvas  by  Wilkie,  —  that  old  Sedan  chair  ! 

See,  —  here  came  the  bearing-straps;  here  were 

the  holes 
For  the  poles  of  the  bearers  —  when  once  there 

were  poles  ; 
It  was  cushioned  with  silk,  it  was  wadded  with 

hair, 
As  the  birds  have  discovered, — that  old  Sedan 

chair  1 

6 


THE  OLD  SEDAN  CHAIR. 

"Where's  Troy?"    says   the   poet!      Look, — 

under  the  seat, 
Is  a   nest  with   four  eggs,  —  'tis   the   favoured 

retreat 
Of  the   Muscovy  hen,  who  has  hatched,  I  dare 

swear, 
Quite  an  army  of  chicks  in  that  old  Sedan  chair  I 

And  yet  —  Can't  you  fancy  a  face  in  the  frame 
Of  the  window, — some  high-headed  damsel  or 

dame, 
Be-patched  and   be-powdered,  just   set   by   the 

stair, 
While   they  raise  up  the  lid  of  that  old  Sedan 

chair  ? 

Can't   you  fancy  Sir   Plume,   as  beside  her  he 

stands, 

With  his  ruffles  a-droop  on  his  delicate  hands, 
With  his  cinnamon  coat,  with  his  laced  solitaire, 
As  he  lifts  her  out  Ikjht  from  that  old  Sedan  chair  ? 


'6' 


Then  it  swings  away  slowly.     Ah.  many  a  league 
It  has  trotted  'twixt  sturdy-legged  Terence  and 

Teague  ; 

Stout  fellows  !  —  but  prone,  on  a  question  of  fare, 
To  brandish  the  poles  of  that  old  Sedan  chair ! 
7 


A7   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

It  has  waited  by  portals  where  Garrick  has 
played ; 

It  has  waited  by  Heidegger's  "  Grand  Mas- 
querade ; " 

For  my  Lady  Codille,  for  my  Lady  Bellair, 

It  has  waited  —  and  waited,  that  old  Sedan  chair  1 

Oh,  the  scandals  it  knows  !    Oh,  the  tales  it  could 

tell 

Of  Drum  and  Ridotto,  of  Rake  and  of  Belle,  — 
Of  Cock-fight  and    Levee,  and  (scarcely  more 

rare  !) 
Of  F£te-days  at  Tyburn,  that  old  Sedan  chair ! 

"  Heu!  quantum  mutata,"  I  say  as  I  go. 

It  deserves  better  fate  than  a  stable-yard,  though  ! 

We  must  furbish  it  up,  and  dispatch  it,  —  "  With 

Care,"  — 
To  a  Fine-Art  Museum  —  that  old  Sedan  chair! 


TO  AN  INTRUSIVE  BUTTERFLY. 


TO   AN    INTRUSIVE    BUTTERFLY. 


—  for  Pity's  sake  —  and  lest  ye  slay 
The  meanest  thing  upon  its  upward  way." 

FIVE  RULES  OF  BUDDHA. 

T  WATCH  you  through  the  garden  walks, 

I  watch  you  float  between 
The  avenues  of  dahlia  stalks, 

And  flicker  on  the  green  ; 
You  hover  round  the  garden  seat, 

You  mount,  you  waver.    Why,  — 
Why  storm  us  in  our  still  retreat, 

O  saffron  Butterfly  ! 


Across  the  room  in  loops  of  flight 

I  watch  you  wayward  go  ; 
Dance  down  a  shaft  of  glancing  light, 

Review  my  books  a-row  ; 
Before  the  bust  you  flaunt  and  flit 

Of  "blind  Maeonides1'  — 
Ah,  trifler,  on  his  lips  there  lit 

Not  butterflies,  but  bees  ! 
9 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

You  pause,  you  poise,  you  circle  up 

Among  my  old  Japan  ; 
You  find  a  comrade  on  a  cup, 

A  friend  upon  a  fan  ; 
You  wind  anon,  a  breathing-while, 

Around  AMANDA'S  brow  ;  — 
Dost  dream  her  then,  O  Volatile  1 

E'en  such  an  one  as  thou  ? 


Away  I     Her  thoughts  are  not  as  thine. 

A  sterner  purpose  fills 
Her  steadfast  soul  with  deep  design 

Of  baby  bows  and  frills  ; 
What  care  hath  she  for  worlds  without, 

What  heed  for  yellow  sun, 
Whose  endless  hopes  revolve  about 

A  planet,  cetat  One  ! 


Away  !     Tempt  not  the  best  of  wives  ; 

Let  not  thy  garish  wing 
Come  fluttering  our  Autumn  lives 

With  truant  dreams  of  Spring  ! 
Away  1     Re-seek  thy  "  Flowery  Land  : 

Be  Buddha's  law  obeyed  ; 
Lest  Betty's  undiscerning  hand 

Should  slay  ...  a  future  PRAED  ! 


THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS. 


THE   CURE'S    PROGRESS. 

A/fONSIEUR  the  Cure  down  the  street 

Comes  with  his  kind  old  face,  — 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

You  may  see  him  pass  by  the  little  ' '  Grande  Place," 

And  the  tiny  "  Hdtel-de-Ville  "  ; 
He  smiles,  as  he  goes,  to  the  fleuriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  The'ophile. 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  "  Marche1"  cool, 

Where  the  noisy  fish-wives  call ; 
And  his  compliment  pays  to  the  "  Belle  Thtrese" 

As  she  knits  in  her  dusky  stall. 

There's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's  shop, 

And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 
Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cur6  gropes 

In  his  tails  for  a  pain  d'dpice. 


There's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of  fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  be  heterodox, 
ii 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

That  will  ended  be  with  a  "  Ma  foi,  owi/" 
And  a  pinch  from  the  Curb's  box. 

There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 
To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou. ; 

And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering  red. 
And  a  "  Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu  !  " 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  Sous-Prdfet, 
And  a  bow  for  Ma'am'selle  Anne  ; 

And  a  mock  "  off-hat "  to  the  Notary's  cat, 
And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan  :  — 


For  ever  through  life  the  Cure"  goes 
With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face  — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MONTHS. 

THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MONTHS. 
(FOR  A  FRESCO.) 

T7IRSTLY  thou,  churl  son  of  Janus, 
Rough  for  cold,  in  drugget  clad, 
Com'st  with  rack  and  rheum  to  pain  us  ;  — 
Firstly  thou,  churl  son  of  Janus. 
Caverned  now  is  old  Sylvanus  ; 
Numb  and  chill  are  maid  and  lad. 


After  thee  thy  dripping  brother, 
Dank  his  weeds  around  him  cling  ; 

Fogs  his  footsteps  swathe  and  smother, 

After  thee  thy  dripping  brother. 

Hearth-set  couples  hush  each  other, 
Listening  for  the  cry  of  Spring. 


Hark  !  for  March  thereto  doth  follow, 
Blithe,  — a  herald  tabarded  ; 

O'er  him  flies  the  shifting  swallow,  — 

Hark  !  for  March  thereto  doth  follow. 

Swift  his  horn,  by  holt  and  hollow, 
Wakes  the  flowers  in  winter  dead. 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Thou  then,  April,  Iris'  daughter, 
Born  between  the  storm  and  sun  ; 

Coy  as  nymph  ere  Pan  hath  caught  her, 

Thou  then,  April,  Iris'  daughter. 

Now  are  light,  and  rustling  water  ; 
Now  are  mirth,  and  nests  begun. 

May  the  jocund  cometh  after, 

Month  of  all  the  Loves  (and  mine)  ; 

Month  of  mock  and  cuckoo-laughter,  — 

May  the  jocund  cometh  after. 

Beaks  are  gay  on  roof  and  rafter  ; 
Luckless  lovers  peak  and  pine. 

June  the  next,  with  roses  scented, 
Languid  from  a  slumber-spell  ; 

June  in  shade  of  leafage  tented  ;  — 

June  the  next,  with  roses  scented. 

Now  her  Itys,  still  lamented, 
Sings  the  mournful  Philomel. 

Hot  July  thereafter  rages, 

Dog-star  smitten,  wild  with  heat ; 

Fierce  as  pard  the  hunter  cages,  — 

Hot  July  thereafter  rages. 

Traffic  now  no  more  engages  ; 

Tongues  are  still  in  stall  and  street. 
14 


\THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MONTHS. 

August  next,  with  cider  mellow, 
Laughs  from  out  the  poppied  corn  ; 

Hook  at  back,  a  lusty  fellow,  — 

August  next,  with  cider  mellow. 

Now  in  wains  the  sheafage  yellow 
Twixt  the  hedges  slow  is  borne. 

Laden  deep  with  fruity  cluster, 
Then  September,  ripe  and  hale  ; 

Bees  about  his  basket  fluster,  — 

Laden  deep  with  fruity  cluster. 

Skies  have  now  a  softer  lustre  ; 
Barns  resound  to  flap  of  flail. 

Thou  then,  too,  of  woodlands  lover, 
Dusk  October,  berry-stained  ; 

Wailed  about  of  parting  plover,  — 

Thou  then,  too,  of  woodlands  lover. 

Fading  now  are  copse  and  cover  ; 
Forests  now  are  sere  and  waned. 

Next  November,  limping,  battered, 
Blinded  in  a  whirl  of  leaf ; 

Worn  of  want  and  travel-tattered,  — 

Next  November,  limping,  battered. 

Now  the  goodly  ships  are  shattered, 
Far  at  sea,  on  rock  and  reef. 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Last  of  all  the  shrunk  December 
Cowled  for  age,  in  ashen  gray  ; 

Fading  like  a  fading  ember,  — 

Last  of  all  the  shrunk  December. 

Him  regarding,  men  remember 
Life  and  joy  must  pass  away. 


16 


TWO  SERMONS. 


TWO  SERMONS. 


"DETWEEN  the  rail  of  woven  brass, 

That  hides  the  "  Strangers'  Pew," 
I  hear  the  gray-haired  vicar  pass 
From  Section  One  to  Two. 


And  somewhere  on  my  left  I  see 
Whene'er  I  chance  to  look  — 

A  soft-eyed,  girl  St.  Cecily, 
Who  notes  them  —  in  a  book. 


Ah,  worthy  GOODMAN,  —  sound  divine  ! 

Shall  I  your  wrath  incur, 
If  I  admit  these  thoughts  of  mine 

Will  sometimes  stray  —  to  her? 


I  know  your  theme,  and  I  revere  ; 

I  hear  your  precepts  tried  ; 
Must  I  confess  I  also  hear 

A  sermon  at  my  side  ? 

VOL.   II.  —  2  17 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Or  how  explain  this  need  I  feel,  - 
This  impulse  prompting  me 

Within  my  secret  self  to  kneel 
To  Faith,  —to  Purity  ! 


18 


-  AU  REYO1R." 

"AU    REVOIR." 
A  DRAMATIC  VIGNETTE. 

SCENE. — The  Fountain  in  the  Garden  of  the  Lux- 
embourg.    It  is  surrounded  by  Promenaders. 

MONSIEUR  JOLICCEUR.     A  LADY  (unknown). 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 
"T^IS  she,  no  doubt.     Brunette, — and  tall : 

A  charming  figure,  above  all  1 
This  promises.  —  Ahem  ! 

THE  LADY. 

Monsieur? 

Ah  !  it  is  three.     Then  Monsieur's  name 
Is  JOLICCEUR  ?  .  .  . 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

Madame,  the  same. 

THE  LADY. 

And  Monsieur's  goodness  has  to  say?  .  .  . 
Your  note  :  .  .  . 

'9 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 
M.    JOLICCEUR. 

Your  note. 

THE  LADY. 

Forgive  me.  —  Nay. 
(Reads) 

"If  Madame  [I  omit]  mil  be 
Beside  the  Fountain-rail  at  Three, 
Then  Madame  —  possibly  —  may  hear 
News  of  her  Spaniel.     JOLICCEUR." 
Monsieur  denies  his  note  ? 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

I  do. 

Now  let  me  read  the  one  from  you. 
"  If  Monsieur  Jolicoeur  will  be 
Beside  the  Fountain-rail  at  Three. 
Then  Monsieur  —  possiblr  —  may  meet 
An  old  Acquaintance.     'INDISCREET.'  " 

THE  LADY  (scandalised). 
Ah,  what  a  folly  !  Tis  not  true. 
I  never  met  Monsieur.  And  you? 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (with  gallantry). 
Have  lived  in  vain  till  now.     But  see  : 

We  are  observed. 

20 


"  AU  REVOIRr 

THE  LADY  (looking  round). 

I  comprehend  .  .  . 
(After  a  pause.) 

Monsieur,  malicious  brains  combine 
For  your  discomfiture,  and  mine. 
Let  us  defeat  that  ill  design. 
If  Monsieur  but  .  .  .  (hesitating). 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (bowing). 
Rely  on  me. 

THE  LADY  (still  hesitating). 
Monsieur,  I  know,  will  understand  .  .  . 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 
Madame,  I  wait  but  your  command. 

THE  LADY. 

You  are  too  good.     Then  condescend 
At  once  to  be  a  new-found  Friend  ! 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (entering  upon  the  part  forlhivith). 
How?    I  am  charmed,  —  enchanted.    Ah! 
What  ages  since  we  met  ...  at  Spa  ? 

THE  LADY  (a  little  disconcerted). 
At  Ems,  I  think.     Monsieur,  maybe, 
Will  recollect  the  Orangery  ? 

21 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

At  Ems,  of  course.     But  Madame's  face 
Might  make  one  well  forget  a  place. 

THE  LADY. 

It  seems  so.     Still,  Monsieur  recalls 
The  Kilrhaus,  and  the  concert-balls  ? 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

Assuredly.     Though  there  again 
'Tis  Madame's  image  I  retain. 

THE  LADY. 

Monsieur  is  skilled  in  ...  repartee. 
(How  do  they  take  it?  —  Can  you  see?) 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

Nay,  —  Madame  furnishes  the  wit. 
(They  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it !) 

THE  LADY. 

And  Monsieur's  friend  who  sometimes  came  ? .  . 
That  clever  ...  I  forget  the  name. 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

The  BARON  ?  ...  It  escapes  me,  too. 
'Twas  doubtless  he  that  Madame  knew  ? 
22 


"AU  REVOIR." 

THE  LADY  (archly). 
Precisely.     But,  my  carriage  waits. 
Monsieur  will  see  me  to  the  gates  ? 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (offering  his  arm). 
I  shall  be  charmed.     (Your  stratagem 
Bids  fair,  I  think,  to  conquer  them.) 

(Aside) 

(Who  is  she  ?     I  must  find  that  out.) 
—  And  Madame's  husband  thrives,  no  doubt  ? 

THE  LADY  (o/ her  guard). 
Monsieur  de  BEAU  —  ?  .  .  He  died  at  Ddle  I 

M.  JOLICOEUR. 
Truly.     How  sad  1 

(Aside) 

(Yet,  on  the  whole, 

How  fortunate  !  BEAU-pr^  I  —  BEAU-z>au  I 
Which  can  it  be  ?     Ah,  there  they  go  !) 
—  Madame,  your  enemies  retreat 
With  all  the  honours  of  ...  defeat. 

THE  LADY. 

Thanks  to  Monsieur.     Monsieur  has  shown 
A  skill  PREVILLE  could  not  disown. 
23 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 
M.    JOLICOEUR. 

You  flatter  me.     We  need  no  skill 
To  act  so  nearly  what  we  will. 
Nay,  —  what  may  come  to  pass,  if  Fate 
And  Madame  bid  me  cultivate  .  .  . 

THE  LADY  (anticipating). 
Alas  !  —  no  farther  than  the  gate. 
Monsieur,  besides,  is  too  polite 
To  profit  by  a  jest  so  slight. 

M.  JOLICCEUR. 

Distinctly.     Still,  I  did  but  glance 
At  possibilities  ...  of  Chance. 

THE  LADY. 

Which  must  not  serve  Monsieur,  I  fear, 
Beyond  the  little  grating  here. 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (aside). 
(She  's  perfect.     One  may  push  too  far, 
Piano,  sano.) 

(They  reach  the  gates.) 

Here  we  are. 
Permit  me,  then  .  .  . 

(Placing  her  in  the  carriage.) 

And  Madame  goes?  . 
Your  coachman  ?  .   .   .  Can   I  ?  .  .   . 
24 


"4U  REISOIR." 

THE  LADY  (smiling) 

Thanks  1  he  knows. 
Thanks  I  Thanks  I 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (insidiously). 

And  shall  we  not  renew 
Our  .  .  .  "  Ems  acquaintanceship  ?" 

THE  LADY  (still  smiling). 

Adieu  1 
My  thanks  instead  I 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (with  pathos). 

It  is  too  hard  1 

(Laying  his  hand  on  the  grating.) 
To  find  one's  Paradise  is  barred  !  1 

THE  LADY. 
Nay.  —  "  Virtue  is  her  own  Reward  !  " 

[Exit. 

M.  JOLICCEUR  (solus). 

BEAU-yaw  ?  —  BEAU-ya//on  ?  — BEAU-manoir.2- 
But  that 's  a  detail ! 

(Waving  his  hand  after  the  carriage.) 
Au  REVOIR  ! 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


THE   CARVER   AND   THE   CALIPH. 

(TT/'E  lay  our  story  in  the  East. 

Because  'tis  Eastern  I    Not  the  least. 
We  place  it  there  because  we  fear 
To  bring  its  parable  too  near, 
And  seem  to  touch  with  impious  hand 
Our  dear,  confiding  native  land.) 


HAROUN  ALRASCHID,  in  the  days 
He  went  about  his  vagrant  ways, 
And  prowled  at  eve  for  good  or  bad 
In  lanes  and  alleys  of  BAGDAD, 
Once  found,  at  edge  of  the  bazaar, 
E'en  where  the  poorest  workers  are, 
A  Carver. 


Fair  his  work  and  fine 
With  mysteries  of  inlaced  design, 
And  shapes  of  shut  significance 
To  aught  but  an  anointed  glance,  — 
The  dreams  and  visions  that  grow  plain 
In  darkened  chambers  of  the  brain. 
26 


THE  CAREER  AND   THE  CALIPH. 

And  all  day  busily  he  wrought 

From  dawn  to  eve,  but  no  one  bought ;  — 

Save  when  some  Jew  with  look  askant, 

Or  keen-eyed  Greek  from  the  Levant, 

Would  pause  awhile,  —  depreciate, — 

Then  buy  a  month's  work  by  the  weight, 

Bearing  it  swiftly  over  seas 

To  garnish  rich  men's  treasuries. 

And  now  for  long  none  bought  at  all, 
So  lay  he  sullen  in  his  stall. 
Him  thus  withdrawn  the  Caliph  found, 
And  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground  — 
"  Ho,  there,  within  1     Hast  wares  to  sell  ? 
Or  slumber'st,  having  dined  too  well  ?" 
"  '  Dined,'  "  quoth  the  man,  with  sullen  eyes, 
"  How  should  I  dine  when  no  one  buys?" 
"Nay,"  said  the  other,  answering  low, — 
"  Nay,  I  but  jested.     Is  it  so  ? 
Take  then  this  coin,  .   .  but  take  beside 
A  counsel,  friend,  thou  hast  not  tried. 
This  craft  of  thine,  the  mart  to  suit, 
Is  too  refined,  — remote,  —  minute  ; 
These  small  conceptions  can  but  fail ; 
'Twere  best  to  work  on  larger  scale, 
And  rather  choose  such  themes  as  wear 
More  of  the  earth  and  less  of  air, 
27 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

The  fisherman  that  hauls  his  net, — 
The  merchants  in  the  market  set, — 
The  couriers  posting  in  the  street,  — 
The  gossips  as  they  pass  and  greet,  - 
These  —  these  are  clear  to  all  men's  eyes, 
Therefore  with  these  they  sympathize. 
Further  (neglect  not  this  advice  !) 
Be  sure  to  ask  three  times  the  price." 

The  Carver  sadly  shook  his  head  ; 
He  knew  'twas  truth  the  Caliph  said. 
From  that  day  forth  his  work  was  planned 
So  that  the  world  might  understand. 
He  carved  it  deeper,  and  more  plain  ; 
He  carved  it  thrice  as  large  again  ; 
He  sold  it,  too,  for  thrice  the  cost  ; 
—  Ah,  but  the  Artist  that  was  lost ! 


28 


TO  AN  UNKNOWN  BUST. 


TO   AN    UNKNOWN    BUST    IN    THE 
BRITISH    MUSEUM. 

"  Sermons  in  stones." 

"\X  7 HO  were  you  once  ?     Could  we  but  guess, 

We  might  perchance  more  boldly 
Define  the  patient  weariness 

That  sets  your  lips  so  coldly  ; 
You  "  lived."  we  know,  for  blame  and  fame  ; 

But  sure,  to  friend  or  foeman, 
You  bore  some  more  distinctive  name 

Than  mere  "  B.  C.,"  —  and  '•  Roman  "  ? 


Your  pedestal  should  help  us  much. 

Thereon  your  acts,  your  title, 
(Secure  from  cold  Oblivion's  touch  !) 

Had  doubtless  due  recital ; 
Vain  hope  !  —  not  even  deeds  can  last  I 

That  stone,  of  which  you  're  minus, 
Maybe  with  all  your  virtues  past 

Endows  .  .  a  TIGELLINUS  1 
29 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

We  seek  it  not  ;  we  should  not  find. 

But  still,  it  needs  no  magic 
To  tell  you  wore,  like  most  mankind, 

Your  comic  mask  and  tragic  ; 
And  held  that  things  were  false  and  true, 

Felt  angry  or  forgiving, 
As  step  by  step  you  stumbled  through 

This  life-long  task  .  .  of  living  1 


You  tried  the  cul-de-sac  of  Thought ; 

The  montagne  Russe  of  Pleasure  ; 
You  found  the  best  Ambition  brought 

Was  strangely  short  of  measure  ; 
You  watched,  at  last,  the  fleet  days  fly, 

Till  —  drowsier  and  colder  — 
You  felt  MERCURIUS  loitering  by 

To  touch  you  on  the  shoulder. 


Twas  then  (why  not  ?)  the  whim  would  come 

That  howso  Time  should  garble 
Those  deeds  of  yours  when  you  were  dumb, 

At  least  you  'd  live — in  Marble  ; 
You  smiled  to  think  that  after  days, 

At  least,  in  Bust  or  Statue, 
(We  all  have  sick-bed  dreams!)  would  gaze, 

Not  quite  incurious,  at  you. 
3° 


TO  AN  UNKNOWN  BUST. 

We  gaze  ;  we  pity  you,  be  sure  1 

In  truth,  Death's  worst  inaction 
Must  be  less  tedious  to  endure 

Than  nameless  petrifaction  ; 
Far  better,  in  some  nook  unknown, 

To  sleep  for  once  —  and  soundly, 
Than  still  survive  in  wistful  stone, 

Forgotten  more  profoundly ! 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


MOLLY   TREFUSIS. 

"Now  the  Graces  are  four  and  the  Venuses  two, 

And  ten  is  the  number  of  Muses  ; 
For  a  Muse  and  a  Grace  and  a  Venus  are  you,  — 

My  dear  little  Molly  Trefusls  !  " 

O  O  he  wrote,  the  old  bard  of  an  "old  magazine : " 

As  a  study  it  not  without  use  is, 
If  we  wonder  a  moment  who  she  may  have  been, 
This  same  "  little  Molly  Trefusis  !  " 


She  was  Cornish.     We  know  that  at  once  by  the 
"  Tre ; " 

Then  of  guessing  it  scarce  an  abuse  is 
If  we  say  that  where  Bude  bellows  back  to  the  sea 

Was  the  birthplace  of  Molly  Trefusis. 

And  she  lived  in  the  era  of  patches  and  bows, 
Not  knowing  what  rouge  or  ceruse  is  ; 

For  they  needed  (I  trust)  but  her  natural  rose, 
The  lilies  of  Molly  Trefusis. 

And  I  somehow  connect  her  (I  frankly  admit 
That  the  evidence  hard  to  produce  is) 
32 


MOLLY   TREFUS1S. 

With  BATH  in  its  hey-day  of  Fashion  and  Wit,  — 
This  dangerous  Molly  Trefusis. 


I  fancy  her,  radiant  in  ribbon  and  knot, 

(How  charming  that  old-fashioned  puce  is  !) 

All  blooming  in  laces,  fal-lals  and  what  not, 
At  the  PUMP  ROOM,  —  Miss  Molly  Trefusis. 


I  fancy  her  reigning,  —  a  Beauty,  —  a  Toast, 
Where  BLADUD'S  medicinal  cruse  is  ; 

And  we  know  that  at  least  of  one  Bard  it  could 

boast,  — 
The  Court  of  Queen  Molly  Trefusis. 


He  says  she  was  "  VENUS."    I  doubt  it.    Beside, 
(Your  rhymer  so  hopelessly  loose  is  1) 

His  "  little"  could  scarce  be  to  Venus  applied, 
If  fitly  to  Molly  Trefusis. 


No,  no.     It  was  HEBE  he  had  in  his  mind  ; 

And  fresh  as  the  handmaid  of  Zeus  is, 
And  rosy,  and   rounded,  and  dimpled, — you'll 
find,— 

Was  certainly  Molly  Trefusis  ! 

VOL.  II. -3  33 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Then  he  calls  her  "a  MUSE."     To  the  charge  I 
reply 

That  we  all  of  us  know  what  a  Muse  is  ; 
It  is  something  too  awful, — too  acid,  —  too  dry, — 

For  sunny-eyed  Molly  Trefusis. 

But  "a  GRACE."    There  I  grant  he  was  probably 
right ; 

(The  rest  but  a  verse-making  ruse  is) 
It  was  all  that  was  graceful,  —  intangible,  —  light, 

The  beauty  of  Molly  Trefusis  I 

Was  she  wooed  ?    Who  can  hesitate  much  about 
that 

Assuredly  more  than  obtuse  is  ; 
For  how  could  the  poet  have  written  so  pat 

"  My  dear  little  Molly  Trefusis  1 " 

And  was  wed  ?     That  I  think  we  must  plainly 
infer, 

Since  of  suitors  the  common  excuse  is 
To  take  to  them  Wives.     So  it  happened  to  her, 

Of  course,  —  "  little  Molly  Trefusis  1 " 

To  the  Bard  ?     'Tis  unlikely.     Apollo,  you  see, 
In  practical  matters  a  goose  is  ;  — 
34 


MOLLY    TREFUSIS. 

Twas  a  knight  of  the  shire,  and  a  hunting  J.P., 
Who  carried  off  Molly  Trefusis  ! 

And  you  '11  find,  I  conclude,  in  the  "Gentleman's 

Mag." 

At  the  end,  where  the  pick  of  the  news  is, 
"O/i  the  (blank),  at  'the  Bath,'  to  Sir  Hilary 


With  a  Fortune,  Miss  MOLLY  TREFUSIS." 

Thereupon  .  .  But  no  farther  the  student  may  pry: 

Love's  temple  is  dark  as  Eleusis  ; 
So  here,  at  the  threshold,  we  part,  you  and  I, 

From  "dear  little  Molly  Trefusis." 


35 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


AT  THE   CONVENT   GATE. 

VX  7ISTARIA  blossoms  trail  and  fall 
Above  the  length  of  barrier  wall 

And  softly,  now  and  then, 
The  shy,  staid-breasted  doves  will  flit 
From  roof  to  gateway-top,  and  sit 

And  watch  the  ways  of  men. 


The  gate  's  ajar.     If  one  might  peep  I 
Ah,  what  a  haunt  of  rest  and  sleep 

The  shadowy  garden  seems  ! 
And  note  how  dimly  to  and  fro 
The  grave,  gray-hooded  Sisters  go, 

Like  figures  seen  in  dreams. 


Look,  there  is  one  that  tells  her  beads  ; 
And  yonder  one  apart  that  reads 

A  tiny  missal's  page  ; 
And  see,  beside  the  well,  the  two 
That,  kneeling,  strive  to  lure  anew 

The  magpie  to  its  cage  ! 
36 


AT  THE  CONVENT  GATE. 

Not  beautiful  —  not  all !     But  each 
With  that  mild  grace,  outlying  speech, 

Which  comes  of  even  mood  ;  — 
The  Veil  unseen  that  women  wear 
With  heart-whole  thought,  and  quiet  care, 

And  hope  of  higher  good. 

"  A  placid  life  —  a  peaceful  life  ! 
What  need  to  these  the  name  of  Wife  ? 

What  gentler  task  (I  said)  — 
What  worthier  —  e'en  your  arts  among  — 
Than  tend  the  sick,  and  teach  the  young, 

And  give  the  hungry  bread  r" 


"  No  worthier  task  !  "  re-echoes  She, 
Who  (closelier  clinging)  turns  with  me 

To  face  the  road  again  : 
—  And  yet,  in  that  warm  heart  of  hers, 
She  means  the  doves',  for  she  prefers 

To  "watch  the  ways  of  men." 


37 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 
THE   MILKMAID. 

A  NEW   SONG   TO    AN    OLD   TUNE. 

A  CROSS  the  grass  I  see  her  pass ; 

She  comes  with  tripping  pace,  — 
A  maid  I  know, — and  March  winds  blow 
Her  hair  across  her  face  ;  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly!  ho,  Dolly! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


The  March  winds  blow.     I  watch  her  go 

Her  eye  is  brown  and  clear  ; 
Her  cheek  is  brown,  and  soft  as  down, 
(To  those  who  see  it  near  !)  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  !  ho,  Dolly  ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


What  has  she  not  that  those  have  got,  — 
The  dames  that  walk  in  silk  1 
33 


THE  MILKMAID. 

If  she  undo  her  'kerchief  blue, 
Her  neck  is  white  as  milk. 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  1  ho,  Dolly  ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Let  those  who  will  be  proud  and  chill ! 

For  me,  from  June  to  June, 
My  Dolly's  words  are  sweet  as  curds  — 
Her  laugh  is  like  a  tune  ;  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly  !  ho,  Dolly  1 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Break,  break  to  hear,  O  crocus-spear  I 

O  tall  Lent-lilies  flame  ! . 
There  '11  be  a  bride  at  Easter-tide, 
And  Dolly  is  her  name. 
With  a  hey,  Dolly!  ho,  Dolly  1 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


39 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

AN    OLD    FISH    POND. 

f~*  REEN  growths  of  mosses  drop  and  bead 

Around  the  granite  brink  ; 
And  'twixt  the  isles  of  water-weed 
The  wood-birds  dip  and  drink. 

Slow  efts  about  the  edges  sleep  ; 

Swift-darting  water-flies 
Shoot  on  the  surface  ;  down  the  deep 

Fast-following  bubbles  rise. 

Look  down.    What  groves  that  scarcely  sway  ! 

What  "  wood  obscure,"  profound  ! 
What  jungle  !  —  where  some  beast  of  prey 

Might  choose  his  vantage-ground  I 

***** 

Who  knows  what  lurks  beneath  the  tide  ?  — 

Who  knows  what  tale  ?     Belike, 
Those  "  antres  vast  "  and  shadows  hide 

Some  patriarchal  Pike  ;  — 

Some  tough  old  tyrant,  wrinkle-jawed, 
To  whom  the  sky,  the  earth, 
40 


AH  OLD  FISH-POND. 

Have  but  for  aim  to  look  on  awed 
And  see  him  wax  in  girth  ;  — 


Hard  ruler  there  by  right  of  might ; 

An  ageless  Autocrat, 
Whose  "  good  old  rule  "  is  "  Appetite, 

And  subjects  fresh  and  fat ;  " 

While  they  —  poor  souls  !  — in  wan  despair 

Still  watch  for  signs  in  him  ; 
And  dying,  hand  from  heir  to  heir 

The  day  undawned  and  dim, 

When  the  pond's  terror  too  must  go  ; 

Or  creeping  in  by  stealth, 
Some  bolder  brood,  with  common  blow, 

Shall  found  a  Commonwealth. 

***** 

Or  say,  —  perchance  the  liker  this  !  — 
That  these  themselves  are  gone  ; 

That  Amurath  in  minimis,  — 
Still  hungry, — lingers  on, 

With  dwindling  trunk  and  wolfish  jaw 

Revolving  sullen  things, 
But  most  the  blind  unequal  law 

That  rules  the  food  of  Kings  ;  — 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

The  blot  that  makes  the  cosmic  All 
A  mere  time-honoured  cheat ;  — 

That  bids  the  Great  to  eat  the  Small, 
Yet  lack  the  Small  to  eat  ! 

***** 

Who  knows  !    Meanwhile  the  mosses  bead 

Around  the  granite  brink  ; 
And  'twixt  the  isles  of  water-weed 

The  wood-birds  dip  and  drink. 


42 


AN  EASTERN  APOLOGUE. 

AN    EASTERN    APOLOGUE. 
(To  E.  H.  P.) 

V/T  ELIK  the  Sultan,  tired  and  wan, 
Nodded  at  noon  on  his  diva"n. 

Beside  the  fountain  lingered  near 
JAMIL  the  bard,  and  the  vizier  — 

Old  YtfsuF,  sour  and  hard  to  please  ; 
Then  JAMIL  sang,  in  words  like  these. 

Slim  is  Butheina  —  slim  is  she 
As  boughs  of  the  Ardka  tree! 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  other,  teeth  between, 
"  Lean,  if  you  will,  —  I  call  her  lean.1' 

Sweet  is  Butheina  —  sweet  as  wine, 
With  smiles  that  like  red  bubbles  shine! 

"True,  —  by  the  Prophet !  "  YtJsur  said. 
"  She  makes  men  wander  in  the  head  1  " 
43 


AT   THE  SIGN   OF  THE   LYRE. 

Dear  is  Butheina —  ah!  more  dear 
Than  all  the  maidens  of  Kashmeer ! 

"  Dear,"  came  the  answer,  quick  as  thought, 
"  Dear  .   .  and  yet  always  to  be  bought." 

So  JAMIL  ceased.     But  still  Life's  page 
Shows  diverse  unto  YOUTH  and  AGE  : 

And,  —  be  the  song  of  Ghouls  or  Gods,  — 
TIME,  like  the  Sultan,  sits  .  .  and  nods. 


44 


TO  A  MISSAL. 


TO   A    MISSAL   OF   THE  THIRTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

TV/f  ISSAL  of  the  Gothic  age, 

Missal  with  the  blazoned  page, 
Whence,  O  Missal,  hither  come, 
From  what  dim  scriptorium  ? 


Whose  the  name  that  wrought  thee  thus, 
Ambrose  or  Theophilus, 
Bending,  through  the  waning  light, 
O'er  thy  vellum  scraped  and  white  ; 


Weaving  'twixt  thy  rubric  lines 
Sprays  and  leaves  and  quaint  designs  ; 
Setting  round  thy  border  scrolled 
Buds  of  purple  and  of  gold  ? 


Ah  !  —  a  wondering  brotherhood, 
Doubtless,  by  that  artist  stood, 
Raising  o'er  his  careful  ways 
Little  choruses  of  praise  ; 
45 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

Glad  when  his  deft  hand  would  paint 
Strife  of  Sathanas  and  Saint, 
Or  in  secret  coign  entwist 
Jest  of  cloister  humourist. 


Well  the  worker  earned  his  wage, 
Bending  o'er  the  blazoned  page  ! 
Tired  the  hand  and  tired  the  wit 
Ere  the  final  Explicit ! 


Not  as  ours  the  books  of  old  — 
Things  that  steam  can  stamp  and  fold  ; 
Not  as  ours  the  books  of  yore  — 
Rows  of  type,  and  nothing  more. 


Then  a  book  was  still  a  Book, 
Where  a  wistful  man  might  look, 
Finding  something  through  the  whole, 
Beating —  like  a  human  soul. 


In  that  growth  of  day  by  day, 
When  to  labour  was  to  pray, 
Surely  something  vital  passed 
To  the  patient  page  at  last  ; 
46 


TO  A  MISSAL. 


Something  that  one  still  perceives 
Vaguely  present  in  the  leaves  ; 
Something  from  the  worker  lent ; 
Something  mute —  but  eloquent  I 


47 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


A    REVOLUTIONARY    RELIC. 

/^~\LD  it  is,  and  worn  and  battered, 

As  I  lift  it  from  the  stall  ; 
And  the  leaves  are  frayed  and  tattered, 
And  the  pendent  sides  are  shattered, 
Pierced  and  blackened  by  a  ball. 

'Tis  the  tale  of  grief  and  gladness 
Told  by  sad  St.  Pierre  of  yore, 
That  in  front  of  France's  madness 
Hangs  a  strange  seductive  sadness, 
Grown  pathetic  evermore. 

And  a  perfume  round  it  hovers, 
Which  the  pages  half  reveal, 
For  a  folded  corner  covers, 
Interlaced,  two  names  of  lovers,  — 
A  "  Savignac"  and  "  Lucile." 

As  I  read  I  marvel  whether, 

In  some  pleasant  old  chateau, 
Once  they  read  this  book  together, 
In  the  scented  summer  weather, 
With  the  shining  Loire  below  ? 
48 


A  REVOLUTIONARY  RELIC. 

Nooked — secluded  from  espial, 

Did  Love  slip  and  snare  them  so, 
While  the  hours  danced  round  the  dial 
To  the  sound  of  flute  and  viol, 
In  that  pleasant  old  chateau  ? 

Did  it  happen  that  no  single 

Word  of  mouth  could  either  speak  ? 
Did  the  brown  and  gold  hair  mingle, 
Did  the  shamed  skin  thrill  and  tingle 
To  the  shock  of  cheek  and  cheek  ? 

Did  they  feel  with  that  first  flushing 
Some  new  sudden  power  to  feel, 
Some  new  inner  spring  set  gushing 
At  the  names  together  rushing 
Of  "  Savignac  "  and  "  Lucile  "  ? 

Did  he  drop  on  knee  before  her  — 

"  Son  Amour,  son  Cceur,  sa  Reine"  - 
In  his  high-flown  way  adore  her, 
Urgent,  eloquent  implore  her, 
Plead  his  pleasure  and  his  pain  ? 

Did  she  turn  with  sight  swift-dimming, 

And  the  quivering  lip  we  know, 
With  the  full,  slow  eyelid  brimming, 
VOL.  ii.  — 4 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

With  the  languorous  pupil  swimming, 
Like  the  love  of  Mirabeau  } 


Stretch  her  hand  from  cloudy  frilling, 

For  his  eager  lips  to  press  ; 
In  a  flash  all  fate  fulfilling 
Did  he  catch  her,  trembling,  thrilling  — 

Crushing  life  to  one  caress  ? 

Did  they  sit  in  that  dim  sweetness 

Of  attained  love's  after-calm, 
Marking  not  the  world  — its  meetness, 
Marking  Time  not,  nor  his  fleetness, 
Only  happy,  palm  to  palm  ? 

Till  at  last  she,  —  sunlight  smiting 

Red  on  wrist  and  cheek  and  hair,  — 
Sought  the  page  where  love  first  lighting, 
Fixed  their  fate,  and,  in  this  writing, 

Fixed  the  record  of  it  there. 
*  *  *  * 

Did  they  marry  midst  the  smother, 

Shame  and  slaughter  of  it  all  ? 
Did  she  wander  like  that  other 
Woful,  wistful,  wife  and  mother, 
Round  and  round  his  prison  wall ;  — 
5° 


A  REVOLUTIONARY  RELIC. 

Wander  wailing,  as  the  plover 

Waileth,  wheeleth,  desolate, 
Heedless  of  the  hawk  above  her, 
While  as  yet  the  rushes  cover, 

Waning  fast,  her  wounded  mate  ;  — 

Wander,  till  his  love's  eyes  met  hers, 

Fixed  and  wide  in  their  despair? 
Did  he  burst  his  prison  fetters, 
Did  he  write  sweet,  yearning  letters, 
"  A  Lucile,  —  en  Angleterre  "  I 

Letters  where  the  reader,  reading, 

Halts  him  with  a  sudden  stop, 
For  he  feels  a  man's  heart  bleeding, 
Draining  out  its  pain's  exceeding  — 
Half  a  life,  at  every  drop  : 

Letters  where  Love's  iteration 
Seems  to  warble  and  to  rave  ; 

Letters  where  the  pent  sensation 

Leaps  to  lyric  exultation, 

Like  a  song-bird  from  a  grave. 

Where,  through  Passion's  wild  repeating, 

Peep  the  Pagan  and  the  Gaul, 
Politics  and  love  competing, 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Abelard  and  Cato  greeting, 
Rousseau  ramping  over  all. 

Yet  your  critic's  right  —  you  waive  it, 

Whirled  along  the  fever-flood  ; 
And  its  touch  of  truth  shall  save  it, 
And  its  tender  rain  shall  lave  it, 
For  at  least  you  read  Arnault, 

Written  there  in  tears  of  blood. 

***** 

Did  they  hunt  him  to  his  hiding, 
Tracking  traces  in  the  snow  ? 
Did  they  tempt  him  out,  confiding, 
Shoot  him  ruthless  down,  deriding, 
By  the  ruined  old  chateau  ? 

Left  to  lie,  with  thia  lips  resting 

Frozen  to  a  smile  of  scorn, 
Just  the  bitter  thought's  suggesting, 
At  this  excellent  new  jesting 
Of  the  rabble  Devil-born. 

Till  some  "tiger-monkey,"  finding 

These  few  words  the  covers  bear. 
Some  swift  rush  of  pity  blinding, 
Sent  them  in  the  shot-pierced  binding 
"A  Lucile,  en  Angleterre." 


A  REVOLUTIONARY  RELIC. 

Fancies  only  1     Nought  the  covers, 

Nothing  more  the  leaves  reveal, 
Yet  I  love  it  for  its  lovers, 
For  the  dream  that  round  it  hovers 
Of  "Savignac"  and  "  Lucile." 


53 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


A   MADRIGAL. 

"D  EFORE  me,  careless  lying, 

Young  Love  his  ware  comes  crying  ; 
Full  soon  the  elf  untreasures 
His  pack  of  pains  and  pleasures, — 

With  roguish  eye, 

He  bids  me  buy 
From  out  his  pack  of  treasures. 


His  wallet's  stuffed  with  blisses, 
With  true-love-knots  and  kisses, 
With  rings  and  rosy  fetters, 
And  sugared  vows  and  letters  ;  — 

He  holds  them  out 

With  boyish  flout, 
And  bids  me  try  the  fetters. 

Nay,  Child  (I  cry),  I  know  them  ; 
There's  little  need  to  show  them  ! 
Too  well  for  new  believing 
I  know  their  past  deceiving,  — 

I  am  too  old 

(I  say),  and  cold, 
To-day,  for  new  believing  I 
54 


A  MADRIGAL. 

But  still  the  wanton  presses, 
With  honey-sweet  caresses, 
And  still,  to  my  undoing, 
He  wins  me,  with  his  wooing, 

To  buy  his  ware 

With  all  its  care, 
Its  sorrow  and  undoing. 


55 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


A  SONG  TO   THE   LUTE. 

TIT"  HEN  first  I  came  to  Court, 
VV  Fa  la! 

When  first  I  came  to  Court, 
I  deemed  Dan  Cupid  but  a  boy, 
And  Love  an  idle  sport, 
A  sport  whereat  a  man  might  toy 
With  little  hurt  and  mickle  joy  — 
When  first  I  came  to  Court  I 

Too  soon  I  found  my  fault, 

Fa  la ! 

Too  soon  I  found  my  fault ; 
The  fairest  of  the  fair  brigade 
Advanced  to  mine  assault. 
Alas  !  against  an  adverse  maid 
Nor  fosse  can  serve  nor  palisade  — 
Too  soon  I  found  my  fault  1 

When  SILVIA'S  eyes  assail, 

Fa  la ! 

When  SILVIA'S  eyes  assail, 
No  feint  the  arts  of  war  can  show, 

56 


A  SONG   TO   THE  LUTE. 

No  counterstroke  avail ; 
Naught  skills  but  arms  away  to  throw, 
And  kneel  before  that  lovely  foe, 
When  SILVIA'S  eyes  assail  1 

Yet  is  all  truce  in  vain, 
Fa  la ! 

Yet  is  all  truce  in  vain, 
Since  she  that  spares  doth  still  pursue 
To  vanquish  once  again  ; 
And  naught  remains  for  man  to  do 
But  fight  once  more,  to  yield  anew, 
And  so  all  truce  is  vain  ! 


57 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 
A   GARDEN    SONG. 

(To  W.  E.  H.) 

T  T  ERE,  in  this  sequestered  close 
Bloom  the  hyacinth  and  rose  ; 
Here  beside  the  modest  stock 
Flaunts  the  flaring  hollyhock  ; 
Here,  without  a  pang,  one  sees 
Ranks,  conditions,  and  degrees. 


All  the  seasons  run  their  race 
In  this  quiet  resting  place  ; 
Peach,  and  apricot,  and  fig 
Here  will  ripen,  and  grow  big  ; 
Here  is  store  and  overplus,  — 
More  had  not  Alcinoiis  1 


Here,  in  alleys  cool  and  green, 
Far  ahead  the  thrush  is  seen  ; 
Here  along  the  southern  wall 
Keeps  the  bee  his  festival ; 
All  is  quiet  else  —  afar 
Sounds  of  toil  and  turmoil  are. 
58 


A  GARDEN  SONG. 

Here  be  shadows  large  and  long  ; 
Here  be  spaces  meet  for  song ; 
Grant,  O  garden-god,  that  I, 
Now  that  none  profane  is  nigh, — 
Now  that  mood  and  moment  please, 
Find  the  fair  Pierides  1 


59 


AJ   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

A   CHAPTER   OF    FROISSART. 

(GRANDPAPA  LOQUITUR.) 

\/OU  don't  know  Froissart  now,  young  folks. 

This  age,  I  think,  prefers  recitals 
Of  high-spiced  crime,  with  "  slang"  for  jokes, 
And  startling  titles  ; 

But,  in  my  time,  when  still  some  few 

Loved  "  old  Montaigne,"  and  praised   Pope's 

Homer 

(Nay,  thought  to  style  him  "  poet"  too, 
Were  scarce  misnomer), 

Sir  John  was  less  ignored.     Indeed, 

I  can  re-call  how  Some-one  present 
(Who  spoils  her  grandson,  Frank  !)  would  read, 
And  find  him  pleasant ; 

For,  —  by  this  copy,  —  hangs  a  Tale. 

Long  since,  in  an  old  house  in  Surrey, 
Where  men  knew  more  of  "  morning  ale  " 
Than  •'  Lindley  Murray/' 
60 


A   CHAPTER   OF  FRO1SSART. 

In  a  dim-lighted,  whip-hung  hall, 

'Neath  Hogarth's  "  Midnight  Conversation," 
It  stood  ;  and  oft  'twixt  spring  and  fall, 
With  fond  elation, 


I  turned  the  brown  old  leaves.     For  there 
All  through  one  hopeful  happy  summer, 
At  such  a  page  (I  well  knew  where), 
Some  secret  comer, 


Whom  I  can  picture,  Trix,  like  you 

(Though  scarcely  such  a  colt  unbroken), 
Would  sometimes  place  for  private  view 
A  certain  token  :  — 


A  rose-leaf  meaning  "  Garden  Wall," 
An  ivy-leaf  for  "  Orchard  corner," 
A  thorn  to  say  "  Don't  come  at  all,"  — 
Unwelcome  warner !  — 


Not  that,  in  truth,  our  friends  gainsaid  ; 

But  then  Romance  required  dissembling, 
(Ann  Radcliffe  taught  us  that !)  which  bred 
Some  genuine  trembling ; 
61 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

Though,  as  a  rule,  all  used  to  end 
In  such  kind  confidential  parley 
As  may  to  you  kind  Fortune  send, 

You  long-legged  Charlie, 


When  your  time  comes.     How  years  slip  on 

We  had  our  crosses  like  our  betters  ; 
Fate  sometimes  looked  askance  upon 
Those  floral  letters  ; 


And  once,  for  three  long  days  disdained, 

The  dust  upon  the  folio  settled  ; 
For  some-one,  in  the  right,  was  pained, 
And  some-one  nettled, 


That  sure  was  in  the  wrong,  but  spake 

Of  fixed  intent  and  purpose  stony 
To  serve  King  George,  enlist  and  make 

Minced-meat  of  "  Boney, ' 


Who  yet  survived  —  ten  years  at  least. 

And  so,  when  she  I  mean  came  hither, 
One  day  that  need  for  letters  ceased, 

She  brought  this  with  her ! 
62 


A  CHAPTER  OF  FROISSART 

Here  is  the  leaf-stained  Chapter :  —  How 
The  English  King  laid  Siege  to  Calais  ; 
I  think  Gran,  knows  it  even  now, — 
Go  ask  her,  Alice. 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


TO   THE    MAMMOTH-TORTOISE 

OF    THE    MASCARENE    ISLANDS. 

"  Tuque,  Testudo,  resonare  septem 
Callida  nervis." 

HOR.  iii.  II. 

TV/TONSTER  Chelonian,  you  suggest 
To  some,  no  doubt,  the  calm,  — 
The  torpid  ease  of  islets  drest 
In  fan-like  fern  and  palm  ; 

To  some  your  cumbrous  ways,  perchance, 

Darwinian  dreams  recall  ; 
And  some  your  Rip-van-Winkle  glance, 

And  ancient  youth  appal ; 

So  widely  varied  views  dispose  : 

But  not  so  mine,  —  for  me 
Your  vasty  vault  but  simply  shows 

A  LYRE  immense,  per  se. 

A  LYRE  to  which  the  Muse  might  chant 

A  truly  "  Orphic  tale." 
Could  she  but  find  that  public  want, 

A  Bard  —  of  equal  scale  ! 
64 


TO   THE  MAMMOTH-TORTOISE. 

Oh,  for  a  Bard  of  awful  words, 
And  lungs  serenely  strong, 

To  sweep  from  your  sonorous  chords 
Niagaras  of  song, 

Till,  dinned  by  that  tremendous  strain, 
The  grovelling  world  aghast, 

Should  leave  its  paltry  greed  of  gain, 
And  mend  its  ways  ...  at  last  I 


VOL.    II. 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

A   ROMAN    "ROUND-ROBIN." 

("  HIS  FRIENDS"  TO  QUINTUS  HORATIUS  FLACCUS.) 

"  Hac  decies  repetita  [non]  placebit."  —  ARS  POETICA. 

T^LACCUS,  you  write  us  charming  songs : 

No  bard  we  know  possesses 
In  such  perfection  what  belongs 
To  brief  and  bright  addresses  ; 

No  man  can  say  that  Life  is  short 

With  mien  so  little  fretful  ; 
No  man  to  Virtue's  paths  exhort 

In  phrases  less  regretful  ; 

Or  touch,  with  more  serene  distress, 

On  Fortune's  ways  erratic  ; 
And  then  delightfully  digress 

From  Alp  to  Adriatic  : 

All  this  is  well,  no  doubt,  and  tends 

Barbarian  minds  to  soften ; 
But,  HORACE  —  we,  we  are  your  friends  — 

Why  tell  us  this  so  often  ? 
66 


A  ROMAN  "ROUND-ROBIN." 

Why  feign  to  spread  a  cheerful  feast, 
And  then  thrust  in  our  faces 

These  barren  scraps  (to  say  the  least) 
Of  Stoic  common-places  ? 

Recount,  and  welcome,  your  pursuits  : 

Sing  Lyde's  lyre  and  hair ; 
Sing  drums  and  Berecynthian  flutes  ; 

Sing  parsley-wreaths  ;  but  spare,  — 

O,  spare  to  sing,  what  none  deny, 
That  things  we  love  decay  ;  — 

That  Time  and  Gold  have  wings  to  fly  ; 
That  all  must  Fate  obey  ! 

Or  bid  us  dine  —  on  this  day  week  — 

And  pour  us,  if  you  can, 
As  soft  and  sleek  as  girlish  cheek, 

Your  inmost  Caecuban  ;  — 

Of  that  we  fear  not  overplus  ; 

But  your  didactic  '  tap  '  — 
Forgive  us  !  —  grows  monotonous  ; 

Nunc  vale  !     Verbum  sap. 


67 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 
VERSES   TO   ORDER. 

(FOR    A   DRAWING   BY   E.    A.    ABBEY.) 

IT  OW  weary  'twas  to  wait !     The  year 

Went  dragging  slowly  on  ; 
The  red  leaf  to  the  running  brook 

Dropped  sadly,  and  was  gone  ; 
December  came,  and  locked  in  ice 

The  plashing  of  the  mill  ; 
The  white  snow  filled  the  orchard  up  ; 

But  she  was  waiting  still. 


Spring  stirred  and  broke.     The  rooks  once  more 

'Gan  cawing  in  the  loft ; 
The  young  lambs1  new  awakened  cries 

Came  trembling  from  the  croft ; 
The  clumps  of  primrose  filled  again 

The  hollows  by  the  way  ; 
The  pale  wind-flowers  blew  ;  but  she 

Grew  paler  still  than  they. 


How  weary  'twas  to  wait !    With  June, 
Through  all  the  drowsy  street, 
68 


VERSES   TO  ORDER. 

Came  distant  murmurs  of  the  war, 
And  rumours  of  the  fleet ; 

The  gossips,  from  the  market-stalls, 
Cried  news  of  Joe  and  Tim  ; 

But  June  shed  all  her  leaves,  and  still 
There  came  no  news  of  him. 


And  then,  at  last,  at  last,  at  last, 

One  blessed  August  morn, 
Beneath  the  yellowing  autumn  elms, 

Pang-panging  came  the  horn  ; 
The  swift  coach  paused  a  creaking-space, 

Then  flashed  away,  and  passed  ; 
But  she  stood  trembling  yet,  and  dazed : 

The  news  had  come  —  at  last ! 


And  thus  the  artist  saw  her  stand, 

While  all  around  her  seems 
As  vague  and  shadowy  as  the  shapes 

That  flit  from  us  in  dreams ; 
And  naught  in  all  the  world  is  true, 

Save  those  few  words  which  tell 
That  he  she  lost  is  found  again  — 

Is  found  attain —  and  well  ! 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


A    LEGACY. 

A  H,  Postumus,  we  all  must  go  : 

This  keen  North-Easter  nips  my  shoulder ; 
My  strength  begins  to  fail ;   I  know 
You  find  me  older  ; 

I  've  made  my  Will.     Dear,  faithful  friend  — 
My  Muse's  friend  and  not  my  purse's  ! 

Who  still  would  hear  and  still  commend 
My  tedious  verses, 

How  will  you  live  —  of  these  deprived  ? 

I've  learned  your  candid  soul.     The  venal,  — 
The  sordid  friend  had  scarce  survived 

A  test  so  penal  ; 

But  you —  Nay,  nay,  'tis  so.     The  rest 
Are  not  as  you  :  you  hide  your  merit ; 

You,  more  than  all,  deserve  the  best 
True  friends  inherit  ;  — 

Not  gold,  —  that  hearts  like  yours  despise  ; 

Not  "  spacious  dirt"  (your  own  expression), 
70 


A  LEGACY. 

No  ;  but  the  rarer,  dearer  prize  — 
The  Life's  Confession  ! 


You  catch  my  thought  ?  What !   Can't  you  guess  ? 

You,  you  alone,  admired  my  Cantos  ;  — 
I've  left  you,  P.,  my  whole  MS., 

In  three  portmanteaus  I 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


"LITTLE    BLUE-RIBBONS." 

"  T    ITTLE  Blue-Ribbons !  "    We  call  her  that 
From  the  ribbons  she  wears  in  her  fa- 
vourite hat ; 

For  may  not  a  person  be  only  five, 
And  yet  have  the  neatest  of  taste  alive  ?  — 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  one  has  views 
Of  the  strictest  sort  as  to  frocks  and  shoes  ; 
And  we  never  object  to  a  sash  or  bow, 
When  "  little  Blue-Ribbons  "  prefers  it  so. 


"  Little  Blue-Ribbons"  has  eyes  of  blue, 

And  an  arch  little  mouth,  when  the  teeth   peep 

through  ; 

And  her  primitive  look  is  wise  and  grave, 
With  a  sense  of  the  weight  of  the  word  "  behave ; " 
Though  now  and  again  she  may  condescend 
To  a  radiant  smile  for  a  private  friend  ; 
But  to  smile  for  ever  is  weak,  you  know, 
And  "  little  Blue-Ribbons"  regards  it  so. 


She's  a  staid  little  woman  !     And  so  as  well 

Is  her  ladyship's  doll,  "  Miss  Bonnibelle  ;  " 
72 


"LITTLE  BLUE-RIBBONS.'' 

But  I  think  what  at  present  the  most  takes  up 
The  thoughts  of  her  heart  is  her  last  new  cup  ; 
For  the  object  thereon,  —  be  it  understood, — 
Is  the  "  Robin  that  buried  the  '  Babes  in  the 

Wood '  "  - 

It  is  not  in  the  least  like  a  robin,  though, 
But  "  little  Blue-Ribbons"  declares  it  so. 

"  Little  Blue-Ribbons"  believes,  I  think, 

That  the  rain  comes  down  for  the  birds  to  drink; 

Moreover,  she  holds,  in  a  cab  you'd  get 

To  the  spot  where  the  suns  of  yesterday  set ; 

And  I  know  that  she  fully  expects  to  meet 

With  a  lion  or  wolf  in  Regent  Street ! 

We  may  smile,  and  deny  as  we  like —  But,  no  ; 

For  "  little  Blue-Ribbons"  still  dreams  it  so. 

Dear  "  little  Blue-Ribbons  !  "     She  tells  us  all 

That  she  never  intends  to  be  "great"  and  "tall  "  ; 

(For  how  could  she  ever  contrive  to  sit 

In  her  "  own,  own  chair,"  if  she  grew  one  bit !) 

And,  further,  she  says,  she  intends  to  stay 

In  her  "darling  home"  till  she  gets  "quite  gray;  " 

Alas  !  we  are  gray  ;  and  we  doubt,  you  know, 

But  "  little  Blue-Ribbons  "  will  have  it  so  ! 


73 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


LINES    TO   A   STUPID    PICTURE. 

"  —  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale." 

AYLMER'S  FIELD. 

T7IVE  geese, — a  landscape  damp  and  wild, — 
A  stunted,  not  too  pretty,  child, 

Beneath  a  battered  gingham  ; 
Such  things,  to  say  the  least,  require 
A  Muse  of  more-than-average  Fire 

Effectively  to  sing  'em. 

And  yet — Why  should  they  ?     Souls  of  mark 
Have  sprung  from  such  ;  —  e'en  Joan  of  Arc 

Had  scarce  a  grander  duty  ; 
Not  always  ('tis  a  maxim  trite) 
From  righteous  sources  comes  the  right,  — 

From  beautiful,  the  beauty. 

Who  shall  decide  where  seed  is  sown  ? 
Maybe  some  priceless  germ  was  blown 

To  this  unwholesome  marish  ; 
(And  what  must  grow  will  still  increase. 
Though  cackled  round  by  half  the  geese 

And  ganders  in  the  parish.) 
74 


LINES   TO  A  STUPID  PICTURE. 

Maybe  this  homely  face  may  hide 
A  Stacl  before  whose  mannish  pride 

Our  frailer  sex  shall  tremble  ; 
Perchance  this  audience  anserine 
May  hiss  (O  fluttering  Muse  of  mine  !)• 

May  hiss  —  a  future  Kemble  ! 

Or  say  the  gingham  shadows  o'er 
An  undeveloped  Hannah  More!  — 

A  latent  Mrs.  Trimmer  !  ! 
Who  shall  affirm  it  ?  —  who  deny  ?  — 
Since  of  the  truth  nor  you  nor  I 

Discern  the  faintest  glimmer  ? 

So  then  —  Caps  off,  my  Masters  all ; 
Reserve  your  final  word,  —  recall 

Your  all-too-hasty  strictures  ; 
Caps  off,  I  say,  for  Wisdom  sees 
Undreamed  potentialities 

In  most  unhopeful  pictures. 


75 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 


A    FAIRY  TALE. 

"  On  court,  helas  !  aprts  la  vtrit£  ; 
Ah  !  croyez-moi,  Ferreur  a  son  mlrite." 

VOLTAIRE. 

BURLED  in  a  maze  of  dolls  and  bricks, 
I  find  Miss  Mary,  cclai  six, 

Blonde,  blue-eyed,  frank,  capricious, 
Absorbed  in  her  first  fairy  book, 
From  which  she  scarce  can  pause  to  look, 

Because  it's  "  so  delicious  !  " 

"  Such  marvels,  too.     A  wondrous  Boat, 
In  which  they  cross  a  magic  Moat, 

That's  smooth  as  glass  to  row  on  — 
A  Cat  that  brings  all  kinds  of  things  ; 
And  see,  the  Queen  has  angel  wings  — 

Then  OGRE  comes  "  —  and  so  on. 

What  trash  it  is  !     How  sad  to  find 
(Dear  Moralist !)  the  childish  mind, 

So  active  and  so  pliant. 
Rejecting  themes  in  which  you  mix 
Fond  truths  and  pleasing  facts,  to  fix 

On  tales  of  Dwarf  and  Giant  ! 
76 


A  FAIRY   TALE. 

In  merest  prudence  men  should  teach 
That  cats  mellifluous  in  speech 

Are  painful  contradictions  ; 
That  science  ranks  as  monstrous  things 
Two  pairs  of  upper  limbs  ;  so  wings  — 

E'en  angels'  wings  !  —  are  fictions  : 

That  there's  no  giant  now  but  Steam  ; 
That  life,  although  "  an  empty  dream,11 

Is  scarce  a  "  land  of  Fairy.11 
"  Of  course  I  said  all  this  ?  "    Why,  no  ; 
I  did  a  thing  far  wiser,  though,  — 

/  read  the  tale  with  Mary. 


77 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

TO    A    CHILD. 
(FROM  THE  "GARLAND  OF  RACHEL.") 

T  T  OW  shall  I  sing  you,  Child,  for  whom 

So  many  lyres  are  strung  ; 
Or  how  the  only  tone  assume 
That  fits  a  Maid  so  young  ? 


What  rocks  there  are  on  either  hand  ! 

Suppose  —  'tis  on  the  cards  — 
You  should  grow  up  with  quite  a  grand 

Platonic  hate  for  bards  ! 


How  shall  I  then  be  shamed,  undone, 

For  ah  !  with  what  a  scorn 
Your  eyes  must  greet  that  luckless  One 

Who  rhymed  you,  newly  born,  — 


Who  o'er  your  "  helpless  cradle  "  bent 

His  idle  verse  to  turn  ; 
And  twanged  his  tiresome  instrument 

Above  your  unconcern  ! 
73 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Nay,  —  let  my  words  be  so  discreet, 
That,  keeping  Chance  in  view, 

Whatever  after  fate  you  meet 
A  part  may  still  be  true. 

Let  others  wish  you  mere  good  looks, 

Your  sex  is  always  fair  ; 
Or  to  be  writ  in  Fortune's  books,  — 

She's  rich  who  has  to  spare  : 

I  wish  you  but  a  heart  that 's  kind, 
A  head  that's  sound  and  clear  ; 

(Yet  let  the  heart  be  not  too  blind, 
The  head  not  too  severe  !) 

A  joy  of  life,  a  frank  delight ; 

A  not-too-large  desire  ; 
And  —  if  you  fail  to  find  a  Knight  — 

At  least  .  .  a  trusty  Squire. 


79 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


HOUSEHOLD   ART. 

"  \/T  IN E  be  a  cot,"  for  the  hours  of  play, 

Of  the  kind  that  is  built  by  Miss  GREEN- 
AWAY  ; 

Where  the  walls  are  low,  and  the  roofs  are  red, 
And  the  birds  are  gay  in  the  blue  o'erhead  ; 
And  the  dear  little  figures,  in  frocks  and  frills, 
Go  roaming  about  at  their  own  sweet  wills, 
And  "play  with  the  pups,"  and    "reprove   the 

calves," 

And  do  nought  in  the  world  (but  Work)  by  halves, 
From  "  Hunt  the  Slipper  "  and  "  Riddle-me-ree  " 
To  watching  the  cat  in  the  apple-tree. 

O  Art  of  the  Household  !    Men  may  prate 
Of  their  ways  "  intense  "  and  Italianate,  — 
They  may  soar  on  their  wings  of  sense,  and  float 
To  the  au  delA  and  the  dim  remote,  — 
Till  the  last  sun  sink  in  the  last-lit  West, 
Tis  the  Art  at  the  Door  that  will  please  the  best ; 
To  the  end  of  Time  'twill  be  still  the  same, 
For  the   Earth  first  laughed  when  the   children 
came  ! 

So 


THE  DISTRESSED  POET. 
THE    DISTRESSED    POET. 

A    SUGGESTION    FROM    HOGARTH. 

/^VNE  knows  the  scene  so  well,  —  a  touch, 

A  word,  brings  back  again 
That  room,  not  garnished  overmuch, 
In  gusty  Drury  Lane; 


The  empty  safe,  the  child  that  cries, 

The  kittens  on  the  coat, 
The  good-wife  with  her  patient  eyes, 

The  milkmaid's  tuneless  throat ; 


And  last,  in  that  mute  woe  sublime, 

The  luckless  verseman's  air  : 
The  "  Bysshe,"  the  foolscap  and  the  rhyme. 

The  Rhyme  .   .   .  that  is  not  there  ! 


Poor  Bard  !     to  dream  the  verse  inspired 

With  dews  Castalian  wet  — 
Is  built  from  cold  abstractions  squired 

By  "  Bysshe,"  his  epithet  1 

VOL.   II.  —  6  8 1 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Ah  !  when  she  comes,  the  glad-eyed  Muse, 

No  step  upon  the  stair 
Betrays  the  guest  that  none  refuse,  — 

She  takes  us  unaware  ; 

And  tips  with  fire  our  lyric  lips, 

And  sets  our  hearts  a-flame, 
And  then,  like  Ariel,  off  she  trips, 

And  none  know  how  she  came. 


Only,  henceforth,  for  right  or  wrong, 
By  some  dull  sense  grown  keen, 

Some  blank  hour  blossomed  into  song, 
We  feel  that  she  has  been. 


82 


JOCOSE  LYRA. 


JOCOSA    LYRA. 

T  N  our  hearts  is  the  Great  One  of  Avon 

Engraven, 

And  we  climb  the  cold  summits  once  built  on 
By  Milton. 

But  at  times  not  the  air  that  is  rarest 

Is  fairest, 
And  we  long  in  the  valley  to  follow 

Apollo. 

Then  we  drop  from  the  heights  atmospheric 
To  Herrick, 

Or  we  pour  the  Greek  honey,  grown  blander, 
Of  Landor ; 

Or  our  cosiest  nook  in  the  shade  is 

Where  Praed  is, 

Or  we  toss  the  light  bells  of  the  mocker 
With  Locker. 


Oh,  the  song  where  not  one  of  the  Graces 

Tight-laces,  — 
83 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Where  we  woo  the  sweet  Muses  not  starchly, 
But  archly,  — 

Where  the  verse,  like  a  piper  a-Maying, 
Comes  playing,  — 

And  the  rhyme  is  as  gay  as  a  dancer 
In  answer,  — 

It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  pleasure 
In  measure  ! 

It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  laughter  .  .  . 
And  after ! 


84 


MY  BOOKS. 


MY    BOOKS. 

*~PHEY  dwell  in  the  odour  of  camphor. 

They  stand  in  a  Sheraton  shrine, 

They  are  il  warranted  early  editions," 

These  worshipful  tomes  of  mine  ;  — 

In  their  creamiest  "  Oxford  vellum," 
In  their  redolent  il  crushed  Levant," 

With  their  delicate  watered  linings. 
They  are  jewels  of  price,  I  grant ;  — 

Blind-tooled  and  morocco-jointed, 
They  have  Zaehnsdorf  s  daintiest  dress. 

They  are  graceful,  attenuate,  polished, 
But  they  gather  the  dust,  no  less  ;  — 

For  the  row  that  I  prize  is  yonder, 
Away  on  the  unglazed  shelves, 

The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves,  — 

Montaigne  with  his  sheepskin  blistered, 
And  Hovvell  the  worse  for  wear, 
85 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuits'  Horace, 
And  the  little  old  cropped  Moliere, 

And  the  Burton  I  bought  for  a  florin, 
And  the  Rabelais  foxed  and  flea'd,  — 

For  the  others  I  never  have  opened, 
But  those  are  the  books  I  read. 


86 


THE  BOOK-PLATE'S  PETITION. 
THE    BOOK-PLATE'S    PETITION. 

BY  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

\\  THILE  cynic  CHARLES  still  trimm'd  the  vane 

Twixt  Querouaille  and  Castlemaine, 
In  days  that  shocked  JOHN  EVELYN, 
My  First  Possessor  fixed  me  in. 
In  days  of  Dutchmen  and  of  frost, 
The  narrow  sea  with  JAMES  1  cross'd, 
Returning  when  once  more  began 
The  Age  of  Saturn  and  of  ANNE. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  the  past  ; 
I  knew  the  GEORGES,  first  and  last ; 
I  have  been  oft  where  else  was  none 
Save  the  great  wig  of  ADDISON  ; 
And  seen  on  shelves  beneath  me  grope 
The  little  eager  form  of  POPE. 
I  lost  the  Third  that  owned  me  when 
French  NOAILLES  fled  at  Dettingen  ; 
The  year  JAMES  WOLFE  surpris'd  Quebec, 
The  Fourth  in  hunting  broke  his  neck  ; 
The  day  that  WILLIAM  HOGARTH  dy'd, 
The  Fifth  one  found  me  in  Cheapside. 
This  was  a  Scholar,  one  of  those 
Whose  Greek  is  sounder  than  their  hose  ; 
87 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

He  lov'd  old  Books  and  nappy  ale, 

So  liv'd  at  Streatham,  next  to  THRALE. 

Twas  there  this  stain  of  grease  I  boast 

Was  made  by  Dr.  JOHNSON'S  toast. 

(He  did  it,  as  I  think,  for  Spite  ; 

My  Master  call'd  him  Jacobite  !) 

And  now  that  I  so  long  to-day 

Have  rested  post  discrimina, 

Safe  in  the  brass-wir'd  book-case  where 

I  watch'd  the  Vicar's  whit'ning  hair, 

Must  I  these  travell'd  bones  inter 

In  some  Collector's  sepulchre  ! 

Must  I  be  torn  from  hence  and  thrown 

With  frontispiece  and  colophon  ! 

With  vagrant  £"s,  and  fs,  and  O's, 

The  spoil  of  plundered  Folios ! 

With  scraps  and  snippets  that  to  ME 

Are  naught  but  kitchen  company ! 

Nay,  rather,  FRIEND,  this  favour  grant  me 

Tear  me  at  once  ;  but  dont  transplant  me. 

CHELTENHAM, 
Sept.  31,  1792. 


PALOMYDES. 


PALOMYDES. 

T  T  IM  best  in  all  the  dim  Arthuriad, 

Of  lovers  of  fair  women,  him  I  prize,  — 
The  Pagan  Palomydes.     Never  glad 

Was  he  with  sweetness  of  his  lady's  eyes, 
Nor  joy  he  had. 

But,  unloved  ever,  still  must  love  the  same, 
And  riding  ever  through  a  lonely  world, 

Whene'er  on  adverse  shield  or  crest  he  came. 
Against  the  danger  desperately  hurled, 
Crying  her  name. 

So  I,  who  strove  to  You  I  may  not  earn, 
Methinks,  am  come  unto  so  high  a  place, 

That  though  from  hence  I  can  but  vainly  yearn 
For  that  averted  favour  of  your  face, 
I  shall  not  turn. 

No,  I  am  come  too  high.     Whate'er  betide, 

To  find  the  doubtful  thing  that  fights  with  me, 
Toward  the  mountain  tops  I  still  shall  ride, 
And  cry  your  name  in  my  extremity, 
As  Palomyde, 
89 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Until  the  issue  come.     Will  it  disclose 
No  gift  of  grace,  no  pity  made  complete, 

After  much  labour  done,  —  much  war  with  woes  ? 
Will  you  deny  me  still  in  Heaven,  my  sweet;  — 
Ah,  Death  —  who  knows  ? 


90 


ANDRE  LE  CHAPELAIN. 


ANDR£  LE  CHAPELAIN. 

(Clerk  of  Love,  1170.) 
HIS   PLAINT   TO    VENUS    OF   THE    COMING    YEARS. 

"Plus  ne  suis  ce  que  fay  esti 

Et  ne  le  sfaurois  jamais  estre  ; 
Mon  beau  frintemps  et  man  estt 
Ont  fait  le  saut  par  la  fenestre." 

CLEMENT  MAROT,  1537. 

QUEEN  VENUS,  round  whose  feet, 
To  tend  thy  sacred  fire, 
With  service  bitter-sweet 

Nor  youths  nor  maidens  tire  ;  — 
Goddess,  whose  bounties  be 
Large  as  the  un-oared  sea  ;  — 


Mother,  whose  eldest  born 

First  stirred  his  stammering  tongue, 
In  the  world's  youngest  morn, 

When  the  first  daisies  sprung  :  — 
Whose  last,  when  Time  shall  die, 
In  the  same  grave  shall  lie  :  — 
91 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Hear  thou  one  suppliant  more  1 
Must  I,  thy  Bard,  grow  old, 

Bent,  with  the  temples  frore, 
Not  jocund  be  nor  bold, 

To  tune  for  folk  in  May 

Ballad  and  virelay  ? 

Shall  the  youths  jeer  and  jape, 
"  Behold  his  verse  doth  dote,,  — 

Leave  thou  Love's  lute  to  scrape, 
And  tune  thy  wrinkled  throat 

To  songs  of  '  Flesh  is  Grass,111  — 

Shall  they  cry  thus  and  pass  ? 

And  the  sweet  girls  go  by  ? 

"  Beshrew  the  grey-beard's  tune 
What  ails  his  minstrelsy 

To  sing  us  snow  in  June  !  " 
Shall  they  too  laugh,  and  fleet 
Far  in  the  sun-warmed  street  ? 

But  Thou,  whose  beauty  bright, 

Upon  thy  wooded  hill, 
With  ineffectual  light 

The  wan  sun  seeketh  still ;  — 
Woman,  whose  tears  are  dried, 

Hardly,  for  Adon's  side,  — 
92 


ANDRE  LE  CHAPELAIN. 

Have  pity,  Erycine ! 

Withhold  not  all  thy  sweets  ; 
Must  I  thy  gifts  resign 

For  Love's  mere  broken  meats  ; 
And  suit  for  alms  prefer 
That  was  thine  Almoner? 

Must  I.  as  bondsman,  kneel 
That,  in  full  many  a  cause, 

Have  scrolled  thy  just  appeal  ? 
Have  I  not  writ  thy  Laws  ? 

That  none  from  Love  shall  take 

Save  but  for  Love's  sweet  sake ;  — 

That  none  shall  aught  refuse 
To  Love  of  Love's  fair  dues ;  — 
Thai  none  dear  Love  shall  scoff 
Or  deem  foul  shame  thereof;  — 
That  none  shall  traitor  be 
To  Love's  own  secrecy ;  — 

Avert,  — avert  it,  Queen  ! 

Debarred  thy  listed  sports, 
Let  me  at  least  be  seen 

An  usher  in  thy  courts, 
Outworn,  but  still  indued 
With  badge  of  servitude. 
93 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

When  I  no  more  may  go, 
As  one  who  treads  on  air, 

To  string-notes  soft  and  slow, 
By  maids  found  sweet  and  fair- 

When  I  no  more  may  be 

Of  Love's  blithe  company  ;  — 

When  I  no  more  may  sit 
Within  thine  own  pleasance, 

To  weave,  in  sentence  fit, 
Thy  golden  dalliance  ; 

When  other  hands  than  these 

Record  thy  soft  decrees  ;  — 

Leave  me  at  least  to  sing 

About  thine  outer  wall, 
To  tell  thy  pleasuring, 

Thy  mirth,  thy  festival ; 
Yea,  let  my  swan-song  be 
Thy  grace,  thy  sanctity. 

[Here  ended  Andrews  words  : 
But  One  that  writeth,  saith  — 

Betwixt  his  stricken  chords 
He  heard  the  Wheels  of  Death ; 

And  knew  the  fruits  Love  bare 

But  Dead-Sea  apples  were.'] 
94 


THE  WATER  OF  GOLD. 


THE    WATER    OF    GOLD. 

"  T)UY, — who'll  buy?"     In  the  market-place, 

Out  of  the  market  din  and  clatter, 
The  quack  with  his  puckered  persuasive  face 
Patters  away  in  the  ancient  patter. 

"Buy,  —  who'll  buy?     In  this  flask  I  hold  — 
In  this  little  flask  that  I  tap  with  my  stick,  sir — 

Is  the  famed,  infallible  Water  of  Gold, — 
The  One,  Original,  True  Elixir  1 

"  Buy —  who'll  buy  ?    There's  a  maiden  there,  — 
She  with  the  ell-long  flaxen  tresses,  — 

Here  is  a  draught  that  will  make  you  fair, 
Fit  for  an  emperor's  own  caresses  1 

"  Buy,  —  who'll  buy  ?     Are  you  old  and  gray  ? 

Drink  but  of  this,  and  in  less  than  a  minute, 
Lo  !  you  will  dance  like  the  flowers  in  May, 

Chirp  and  chirk  like  a  new-fledged  linnet  1 

"  Buy,  —  who'll  buy  ?     Is  a  baby  ill  ? 
Drop  but  a  drop  of  this  in  his  throttle, 
95 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 

Straight  he  will  gossip  and  gorge  his  fill, 
Brisk  as  a  burgher  over  a  bottle  ! 

"  Here  is  wealth  for  your  life,  —  if  you  will  but 

ask  ; 
Here  is  health  for  your  limb,  without  lint  or 

lotion  ; 

Here  is  all  that  you  lack,  in  this  tiny  flask  ; 
And  the  price  is  a  couple  of  silver  groschen  ! 

"  Buy,  — who  '11  buy  ? "     So  the  tale  runs  on  : 
And  still  in  the  great  world's  market-places 

The  Quack,  with  his  quack  catholicon, 
Finds  ever  his  crowd  of  upturned  faces ; 

For  he  plays  on  our  hearts  with  his  pipe  and  drum, 
On  our  vague  regret,  on  our  weary  yearning  ; 

For  he  sells  the  thing  that  never  can  come, 
Or  the  thing  that  has  vanished,  past  returning. 


96 


A  F/tNCY  f-ROM  FONTENELLE. 
A    FANCY    FROM    FONTENELLE. 

"De  mtmoires  de  Roses  on  na  point  vu  motirir  le  Jardinier." 


T^HE  Rose  in  the  garden  slipped  her  bud, 

And  she  laughed  in  the  pride  of  her  youthful 

blood, 

As  she  thought  of  the  Gardener  standing  by  — 
"  He  is  old,  —  so  old  !    And  he  soon  must  die  !  " 

The  full  Rose  waxed  in  the  warm  June  air, 

And  she  spread  and  spread  till  her  heart  lay  bare  ; 

And  she  laughed  once  more  as  she  heard   his 

tread  — 
"  He  is  older  now  !     He  will  soon  be  dead  !  " 

But  the  breeze  of  the  morning  blew,  and  found 
That  the  leaves  of  the  blown  Rose  strewed  the 

ground  ; 

And  he  came  at  noon,  that  Gardener  old, 
And  he  raked  them  gently  under  the  mould. 

And  I  wove  the  thing  to  a  random  rhyme, 
For  the  Rose  is  Beauty,  the  Gardener,  Time. 


VOL.  II.—  7 


97 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


DON    QUIXOTE. 

"DEHIND  thy  pasteboard,  on  thy  battered  hack, 
Thy  lean  cheek  striped  with  plaster  to  and 

fro, 

Thy  long  spear  levelled  at  the  unseen  foe, 
And  doubtful  Sancho  trudging  at  thy  back, 
Thou  wert  a  figure  strange  enough,  good  lack  ! 
To  make  Wiseacredom,  both  high  and  low, 
Rub  purblind  eyes,  and  (having  watched  thee  go) 
Dispatch  its  Dogberrys  upon  thy  track  : 
Alas  I  poor  Knight !     Alas !  poor  soul  possest ! 
Yet  would  to-day  when  Courtesy  grows  chill, 
And  life's  fine  loyalties  are  turned  to  jest, 
Some  fire  of  thine  might  burn  within  us  still  1 
Ah,  would  but  one  might  lay  his  lance  in  rest, 
And  charge  in  earnest  —  were  it  but  a  mill ! 


98 


A  BROKEN  SWORD. 
A    BROKEN    SWORD. 

(To  A.  L.) 

"T^HE  shopman  shambled  from  the  doorway  out 
And  twitched  it  down  — 

Snapped  in  the  blade  !      'Tvvas  scarcely  dear,   I 
doubt. 

At  half-a-crown. 

Useless  enough  !     And  yet  can  still  be  seen, 

In  letters  clear, 
Traced  on  the  metal's  rusty  damaskeen  — 

"Povr  Paruenyr." 

Whose  was  it  once  ? — Who  manned  it  once  in  hope 

His  fate  to  gain  ? 
Who  was  it  dreamed  his  oyster-world  should  ope 

To  this  —  in  vain  ? 

Maybe  with  some  stout  Argonaut  it  sailed 

The  Western  Seas ; 
Maybe  but  to  some  paltry  Nym  availed 

For  toasting  cheese  ! 
99 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

Or  decked  by  Beauty  on  some  morning  lawn 

With  silken  knot, 

Perchance,  ere  night,  for  Church  and  King  'twas 
drawn  — 

Perchance  'twas  not  ! 


Who  knows  —  or  cares  ?     To-day,  'mid  foils  and 
gloves 

Its  hilt  depends, 
Flanked  by  the  favours  of  forgotten  loves,  — 

Remembered  friends  ;  — 


And  oft  its  legend  lends,  in  hours  of  stress, 

A  word  to  aid  ; 
Or  like  a  warning  comes,  in  puffed  success, 

Its  broken  blade. 


100 


THE  POETS  SEAT. 


THE    POETS   SEAT. 

AN    IDYLL   OF   THE    SUBURBS. 

"  file  ferrantm  mihi  prater  omnes 
Angitlus  Ridet" 

—  HOR.  li.  6. 

TT  was  an  elm-tree  root  of  yore, 

With  lordly  trunk,  before  they  lopped  it, 
And  weighty,  said  those  five  who  bore 

Its  bulk  across  the  lawn,  and  dropped  it 
Not  once  or  twice,  before  it  lay, 

With  two  young  pear-trees  to  protect  it, 
Safe  where  the  Poet  hoped  some  day 

The  curious  pilgrim  would  inspect  it. 


He  saw  him  with  his  Poet's  eye, 

The  tall  Maori,  turned  from  etching 
The  ruin  of  St.  Paul's,  to  try 

Some  object  better  worth  the  sketching  :  — 
He  saw  him,  and  it  nerved  his  strength 

What  time  he  hacked  and  hewed  and  scraped  it, 
Until  the  monster  grew  at  length 

The  Master-piece  to  which  he  shaped  it. 
101 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE  LYRE. 

To  wit  —  a  goodly  garden  seat, 

And  fit  alike  for  Shah  or  Sophy, 
With  shelf  for  cigarettes  complete, 

And  one,  but  lower  down,  for  coffee  ; 
He  planted  pansies  'round  its  foot, — 

"  Pansies  for  thoughts  !  "  and  rose  and  arum 
The  Motto  (that  he  meant  to  put) 

Was  "  Ille  ano-ulus  terrarum.'' 


But  "  Oh  !  the  change"  (as  Milton  sings)  — 

"  The  heavy  change  !  "    When  May  departed, 
When  June  with  its  "  delightful  things  " 

Had  come  and  gone,  the  rough  bark  started,  — 
Began  to  lose  its  sylvan  brown, 

Grew  parched,  and  powdery,  and  spotted  ; 
And,  though  the  Poet  nailed  it  down, 

It  still  flapped  up,  and  dropped,  and  rotted. 


Nor  was  this  all.     Twas  next  the  scene 

Of  vague  (and  viscous)  vegetations  ; 
Queer  fissures  gaped,  with  oozings  green, 

And  moist,  unsavoury  exhalations,  — 
Faint  wafts  of  wood  decayed  and  sick, 

Till,  where  he  meant  to  carve  his  Motto. 
Strange  leathery  fungi  sprouted  thick, 

And  made  it  like  an  oyster  grotto. 
102 


THE  POETS  SEAT. 

Briefly,  it  grew  a  seat  of  scorn, 

Bare,  —  shameless,  —  till,  for  fresh  disaster, 
From  end  to  end,  one  April  morn, 

'Twas  riddled  like  a  pepper  caster,  — 
Drilled  like  a  vellum  of  old  time  ; 

And  musing  on  this  final  mystery, 
The  Poet  left  off  scribbling  rhyme, 

And  took  to  studying  Natural  History. 

This  was  the  turning  of  the  tide  ; 

His  five-act  play  is  still  unwritten  ; 
The.  dreams  that  now  his  soul  divide 

Are  more  of  Lubbock  than  of  Lytton  ; 
"  Ballades  "  are  "  verses  vain  "  to  him 

Whose  first  ambition  is  to  lecture 
(So  much  is  man  the  sport  of  whim  !) 

On  "  Insects  and  their  Architecture." 


103 


AT  7 'HE  SIGN  OF  THE  LYRE. 


THE    LOST    ELIXIR. 

"  One  drop  of  ruddy  human  blood  puts  more  life  into  the 
•veins  of  a  poem  than  all  the  delusive  '  aurum  potabile'*  that 
can  be  distilled  out  of  the  choicest  library."  —  LOWELL. 

A  H,  yes,  that  "  drop  of  human  blood  !  " 

We  had  it  once,  may  be, 
When  our  young  song's  impetuous  flood 

First  poured  its  ecstasy  ; 
But  now  the  shrunk  poetic  vein 
Yields  not  that  priceless  drop  again. 

We  toil,  —  as  toiled  we  not  of  old  ; 

Our  patient  hands  distil 
The  shining  spheres  of  chemic  gold 

With  hard-won,  fruitless  skill ; 
But  that  red  drop  still  seems  to  be 
Beyond  our  utmost  alchemy. 

Perchance,  but  most  in  later  age, 

Time's  after-gift,  a  tear, 
Will  strike  a  pathos  on  the  page 

Beyond  all  art  sincere  ; 
But  that  "  one  drop  of  human  blood  " 
Has  gone  with  life's  first  leaf  and  bud. 
104 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 


IOS 


A    DIALOGUE 

TO   THE    MEMORY    OF    MR.    ALEXANDER    POPE. 
"  Non  injussa  cano." 

VlRG. 

pOET.     I  sing  of  POPE  — 

FRIEND.     What,  POPE,  the  Twitnam  Bard, 
Whom  Dennis,  Cibber,Tibbald  push'd  so  hard  ! 
POPE  of  the  Dunciad  /     POPE  who  dar'd  to  woo, 
And  then  to  libel,  Worlley-Montagu  ! 
POPE  of  the  Ham-walks  story  — 

P.    Scandals  all  ! 

Scandals  that  now  I  care  not  to  recall. 
Surely  a  little,  in  two  hundred  Years, 
One  may  neglect  Contemporary  Sneers  :  — 
Surely  Allowance  for  the  Man  may  make 
That  had  all  Grub-street  yelping  in  his  Wake  1 
And  who  (I  ask  you)  has  been  never  Mean, 
When  urged  by  Envy,  Anger  or  the  Spleen  ? 
No  :  I  prefer  to  look  on  POPE  as  one 
Not  rightly  happy  till  his  Life  was  done  ; 
107 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 

Whose  whole  Career,  romance  it  as  you  please, 
Was  (what  he  call'd  it)  but  a  •'  long  Disease  :  " 
Think  of  his  Lot,  —  his  Pilgrimage  of  Pain, 
His  "crazy  Carcass'1  and  his  restless  Brain  ; 
Think  of  his  Night-Hours  with  their  Feet  of  Lead, 
His  dreary  Vigil  and  his  aching  Head  ; 
Think  of  all  this,  and  marvel  then  to  find 
The  "  crooked  Body  with  a  crooked  Mind  !  " 
Nay  rather,  marvel  that,  in  Fate's  Despite, 
You  find  so  much  to  solace  and  delight,  — 
So  much  of  Courage,  and  of  Purpose  high 
In  that  unequal  Struggle  not  to  die. 
I  grant  you  freely  that  POPE  played  his  Part 
Sometimes  ignobly  —  but  he  lov'd  his  Art  ; 
I  grant  you  freely  that  he  sought  his  Ends 
Not  always  wisely  —  but  he  lov'd  his  Friends  ; 
And  who  of  Friends  a  nobler  Roll  could  show  — 
Swift,  St.  John,  Bathurst,  Marchmont,  Peterb'ro', 
Arbuthnot  — 

FR.  ATTICUS  ? 

P.     Well  (enlre  nous), 
Most  that  he  said  of  Addison  was  true. 
Plain  Truth,  you  know  — 


FR.     Is  often  not  polite 

(So  Hamlet  thought)  — 

1 08 


A  DIALOGUE. 

P.     And  Hamlet  (Sir)  was  right. 
But  leave  POPE'S  Life.  To-day,  methinks,  we  touch 
The  Work  too  little  and  the  Man  too  much. 
Take  up  the  Lock,  the  Satires,  Eloise  — 
What  Art  supreme,  what  Elegance,  what  Ease  1 
How  keen  the  Irony,  the  Wit  how  bright, 
The  Style  how  rapid,  and  the  Verse  how  light ! 
Then  read  once  more,  and  you  shall  wonder  yet 
At  Skill,  at  Turn,  at  Point,  at  Epithet. 
"  True  Wit  is  Nature  to  Advantage  dress'd  "  — 
Was  ever  Thought  so  pithily  express'd  ? 
"And  ten  low  Words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  Line1' — 
Ah,  what  a  Homily  on  Yours  .  .  and  Mine  ! 
Or  take — to  choose  at  Random — take  but  This  — 
"Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  that  writes  amiss." 

FR.      Pack'd   and   precise,   no   Doubt.      Yet 

surely  those 

Are  but  the  Qualities  we  ask  of  Prose. 
Was  he  a  POET  ? 

P.     Yes  :  if  that  be  what 
Byron  was  certainly  and  Bowles  was  not ; 
Or  say  you  grant  him,  to  come  nearer  Date. 
What  Dryden  had,  that  was  denied  to  Tate  — 

FR.    Which  means,  you  claim  for  him  the  Spark 

divine, 

Yet  scarce  would  place  him  on  the  highest  Line  — 
109 


MEMORIAL    l/ERSES. 

P.     True,  there  are  Classes.     POPE  was  most 

of  all 

Akin  to  Horace,  Persius,  Juvenal; 
POPE  was,  like  them,  the  Censor  of  his  Age, 
An  Age  more  suited  to  Repose  than  Rage  ; 
When    Rhyming   turn'd   from    Freedom    to    the 

Schools, 

And  shock'd  with  Licence,  shudder'd  into  Rules; 
When  Phoebus  touch'd  the  Poet's  trembling  Ear 
With  one  supreme  Commandment  Be  thou  Clear ; 
When  Thought  meant  less  to  reason  than  compile, 
And  the  Muse  laboured  .  .  chiefly  with  the  File. 
Beneath  full  Wigs  no  Lyric  drew  its  Breath 
As  in  the  Days  of  great  ELIZABETH  ; 
And  to  the  Bards  of  ANNA  was  denied 
The  Note  that  Wordsworth  heard  on  Duddon-slde. 
But  POPE  took  up  his  Parable,  and  knit 
The  Woof  of  Wisdom  with  the  Warp  of  Wit ; 
He  trimm'd  the  Measure  on  its  equal  Feet, 
And  smooth'd  and  fitted  till  the  Line  was  neat  ; 
He  taught  the  Pause  with  due  Effect  to  fall ; 
He  taught  the  Epigram  to  come  at  Call ; 
He  wrote  — 

FR.     His  Iliad! 

P.    Well,  suppose  you  own 
You  like  your  Iliad  in  the  Prose  of  Bohn,  — 
no 


A  DIALOGUE. 

Tho'  if  you'd  learn  in  Prose  how  Homer  sang, 
Twere  best  to  learn  of  Butcher  and  of  Lang,  — 
Suppose  you  say  your  Worst  of  POPE,  declare 
His  Jewels  Paste,  his  Nature  a  Parterre, 
His  Art  but  Artifice  —  I  ask  once  more 
Where  have  you  seen  such  Artifice  before  ? 
Where  have  you  seen  a  Parterre  better  grac'd, 
Or  gems  that  glitter  like  his  Gems  of  Paste  ? 
Where  can    you   show,   among   your   Names  of 

Note, 

So  much  to  copy  and  so  much  to  quote  r 
And  where,  in  Fine,  in  all  our  English  Verse, 
A  Style  more  trenchant  and  a  Sense  more  terse  ? 

So  I,  that  love  the  old  Augustan  Days 
Of  formal  Courtesies  and  formal  Phrase  ; 
That  like  along  the  finish'd  Line  to  feel 
The  Ruffle's  Flutter  and  the  Flash  of  Steel  ; 
That  like  my  Couplet  as  compact  as  clear ; 
That  like  my  Satire  sparkling  tho1  severe, 
Unmix'd  with  Bathos  and  unmarr'd  by  Trope, 
I  fling  my  Cap  for  Polish  —  and  for  POPE  ! 


in 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 


A    FAMILIAR    EPISTLE 

To  *  *  Esq.  of  *  *  with  a  Life  of  the  late  Ingenious 
Mr.   W*".  Hogarth. 

T^\EAR  Cosmopolitan, —  I   know 

I  should  address  you  a  Rondeau, 
Or  else  announce  what  I  \e  to  say 
At  least  en  Ballade  fratrisdc ; 
But  No  :  for  once  I  leave  Gymnasticks, 
And  take  to  simple  Hudibrasticks  ; 
Why  should  I  choose  another  Way. 
When  this  was  good  enough  for  GAY  ? 


You  love,  my  FRIEND,  with  me,  I  think, 
That  Age  of  Lustre  and  of  Link ; 
Of  Chelsea  China  and  long  "  s"es, 
Of  Bag-wigs  and  of  flowered  Dresses  ; 
That  Age  of  Folly  and  of  Cards, 
Of  Hackney  Chairs  and  Hackney  Bards  ; 
—  No  H — LTS,  no  K — G — N   P— LS  were  then 
Dispensing  Competence  to  Men  ; 
The  gentle  Trade  was  left  to  Churls, 
Your  frowsy  TONSONS  and  your  CURLLS  : 

112 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE. 

Mere  Wolves  in  Ambush  to  attack 
The  AUTHOR  in  a  Sheep-skin  Back  ; 
Then  SAVAGE  and  his  Brother-Sinners 
In  Porridge-Island  div'd  for  Dinners  ; 
Or  doz'd  on  Covent  Garden  Bulks, 
And  liken'd  Letters  to  the  Hulks  ;  — 
You  know  that  by-gone  Time,  I  say, 
That  aimless  easy-moral'd  Day, 
When  rosy  Morn  found  MADAM  still 
Wrangling  at  Ombre  or  Quadrille, 
When  good  Sir  JOHN  reel'd  Home  to  Bed, 
From  Pontacks  or  the  Shakespcar's  Head ; 
When  TRIP  conveyed  his  Master's  Cloaths, 
And  took  his  Titles  and  his  Oaths  ; 
While  BETTY,  in  a  cast  Brocade, 
Ogled  MY  LORD  at  Masquerade; 
When  GARRICK  play'd  the  guilty  Richard, 
Or  mouth'd  Macbeth  with  Mrs.  PRITCHARD  ; 
When  FOOTE  grimac'd  his  snarling  Wit ; 
When  CHURCHILL  bullied  in  the  Pit ; 
When  the  CUZZONI  sang  — 

But  there ! 

The  further  Catalogue  I  spare. 
Having  no  Purpose  to  eclipse 
That  tedious  Tale  of  HOMER'S  Ships  ;  — 
This  is  the  MAN  that  drew  it  all 
From  Pannier  Alley  to  the  Mall, 

VOL.    II.  — 8  11 


MEMORIAL    VERSES. 

Then  turn'd  and  drew  it  once  again 

From  Bird-Cage  Walk  to  Lewknor's  Lane ;  — 

Its  Rakes  and  Fools,  its  Rogues  and  Sots  ; 

Its  brawling  Quacks,  its  starveling  Scots  ; 

Its  Ups  and  Downs,  its  Rags  and  Garters, 

Its  HENLEYS,  LOVATS,  MALCOLMS,  CHARTRES  ; 

Its  Splendour,  Squalor,  Shame,  Disease  ; 

Its  quicquid  agunt  Homines ;  — 

Nor  yet  omitted  to  pourtray 

Furens  quid  possit  Foemina  ;  — 

In  short,  held  up  to  ev'ry  Class 

NATURE'S  unflatt'ring  looking-Glass  ; 

And,  from  his  Canvass,  spoke  to  All 

The  Message  of  a  JUVENAL. 

Take  Him.     His  Merits  most  aver: 
His  weak  Point  is  —  his  Chronicler  1 

NovR.  i,  1879. 


HENRY  FIELDING. 

HENRY    FIELDING. 
(To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.) 

"XT  OT  from  the  ranks  of  those  we  call 

Philosopher  or  Admiral, — 
Neither  as  LOCKE  was,  nor  as  BLAKE, 
Is  that  Great  Genius  for  whose  sake 
We  keep  this  Autumn  festival. 


And  yet  in  one  sense,  too,  was  he 
A  soldier  —  of  humanity  ; 
And,  surely,  philosophic  mind 
Belonged  to  him  whose  brain  designed 
That  teeming  COMIC  EPOS  where, 
As  in  CERVANTES  and  MOLIERE, 
Jostles  the  medley  of  Mankind. 

Our  ENGLISH  NOVEL'S  pioneer ! 
His  was  the  eye  that  first  saw  clear 
How,  not  in  natures  half-effaced 
By  cant  of  Fashion  and  of  Taste,  — 
Not  in  the  circles  of  the  Great, 
Faint-blooded  and  exanimate,  — 
"5 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 

Lay  the  true  field  of  Jest  and  Whim, 
Which  we  to-day  reap  after  him. 
No  :  — he  stepped  lower  down  and  took 
The  piebald  PEOPLE  for  his  Book  ! 

Ah,  what  a  wealth  of  Life  there  is 
In  that  large-laughing  page  of  his  ! 
What  store  and  stock  of  Common-Sense, 
Wit,  Wisdom,  Books,  Experience  ! 
How  his  keen  Satire  flashes  through, 
And  cuts  a  sophistry  in  two  ! 
How  his  ironic  lightning  plays 
Around  a  rogue  and  all  his  ways  ! 
Ah,  how  he  knots  his  lash  to  see 
That  ancient  cloak,  Hypocrisy  1 

Whose  are  the  characters  that  give 

Such  round  reality  ? — that  live 

With  such  full  pulse  ?     Fair  SOPHY  yet 

Sings  Bobbing  Joan  at  the  spinet ; 

We  see  AMELIA  cooking  still 

That  supper  for  the  recreant  WILL  ; 

We  hear  Squire  WESTERN'S  headlong  tones 

Bawling  "  Wut  ha  ?  —  wut  ha  ? "  to  JONES. 

Are  they  not  present  now  to  us,  — 

The  Parson  with  his  AZschylus  1 

SLIPSLOP  the  frail,  and  NORTHERTON, 
116 


HENRY  FIELDING. 

PARTRIDGE,  and  BATH,  and  HARRISON  ?  — 
Are  they  not  breathing,  moving,  —  all 
The  motley,  merry  carnival 
That  FIELDING  kept,  in  days  agone ? 

He  was  the  first  who  dared  to  draw 
Mankind  the  mixture  that  he  saw  ; 
Not  wholly  good  nor  ill,  but  both, 
With  fine  intricacies  of  growth. 
He  pulled  the  wraps  of  flesh  apart, 
And  showed  the  working  human  heart  ; 
He  scorned  to  drape  the  truthful  nude 
With  smooth,  decorous  platitude  ! 

He  was  too  frank,  may  be  ;  and  dared 
Too  boldly.     Those  whose  faults  he  bared, 
Writhed  in  the  ruthless  grasp  that  brought 
Into  the  light  their  secret  thought. 
Therefore  the  TARTUFFE-throng  who  say 
"  Couvre\  ce  sem,"  and  look  that  way,  — 
Therefore  the  Priests  of  Sentiment 
Rose  on  him  with  their  garments  rent. 
Therefore  the  gadfly  swarm  whose  sting 
Plies  ever  round  some  generous  thing, 
Buzzed  of  old  bills  and  tavern-scores, 
Old  "  might-have-beens  "  and  "  heretofores  "  ; 
Then,  from  that  garbled  record-list, 
Made  him  his  own  Apologist. 
117 


MEMORIAL    YERSES. 

And  was  he  ?     Nay,  —  let  who  has  known 
Nor  Youth  nor  Error,  cast  the  stone  1 
If  to  have  sense  of  Joy  and  Pain 
Too  keen,  —  to  rise,  to  fall  again, 
To  live  too  much,  — be  sin,  why  then, 
This  was  no  pattern  among  men. 
But  those  who  turn  that  later  page, 
The  Journal  of  his  middle-age, 
Watch  him  serene  in  either  fate, — 
Philanthropist  and  Magistrate  ; 
Watch  him  as  Husband,  Father,  Friend, 
Faithful,  and  patient  to  the  end  ; 
Grieving,  as  e'en  the  brave  may  grieve, 
But  for  the  loved  ones  he  must  leave  : 
These  will  admit  —  if  any  can  — 
That  'neath  the  green  Estrella  trees, 
No  Artist 'merely,  but  a  MAN, 
Wrought  on  our  noblest  island-plan, 
Sleeps  with  the  alien  Portuguese. 


n3 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

"Nee  turpem  settee  tarn 
Degere,  nee  cithara  care/item." 

—  IIoR.  i.  31. 

tO  k6  tune'ess  m  °ld  age  I  " 
Ah  !  surely  blest  his  pilgrimage, 
Who,  in  his  Winter's  snow, 
Still  sings  with  note  as  sweet  and  clear 
As  in  the  morning  of  the  year 
When  the  first  violets  blow  ! 

Blest !  — but  more  blest,  whom  Summer's  heat, 
Whom  Spring's  impulsive  stir  and  beat, 

Have  taught  no  feverish  lure  ; 
Whose  Muse,  benignant  and  serene, 
Still  keeps  his  Autumn  chaplet  green 

Because  his  verse  is  pure  ! 

Lie  calm,  O  white  and  laureate  head  ! 
Lie  calm,  O  Dead,  that  art  not  dead, 

Since  from  the  voiceless  grave, 
Thy  voice  shall  speak  to  old  and  young 
While  song  yet  speaks  an  English  tongue 

By  Charles'  or  Thamis'  wave  ! 
119 


MEMORIAL   l/ERSES. 


CHARLES   GEORGE   GORDON. 

"  "D  ATH  ER  be  dead  than  praised,"  he  said, 

That  hero,  like  a  hero  dead, 
In  this  slack-sinewed  age  endued 
With  more  than  antique  fortitude  1 


"  Rather  be  dead  than  praised  !  "    Shall  we, 
Who  loved  thee,  now  that  Death  sets  free 
Thine  eager  soul,  with  word  and  line 
Profane  that  empty  house  of  thine  ? 

Nay,  —  let  us  hold,  be  mute.     Our  pain 
Will  not  be  less  that  we  refrain  ; 
And  this  our  silence  shall  but  be 
A  larger  monument  to  thee. 


120 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 

LT  E  set  the  trumpet  to  his  lips,  and  lo  ! 

The  clash  of  waves,  the  roar  of  winds  that 

blow, 

The  strife  and  stress  of  Nature's  warring  things, 
Rose  like  a  storm-cloud,  upon  angry  wings. 

He  set  the  reed-pipe  to  his  lips,  and  lo  ! 
The  wreck  of  landscape  took  a  rosy  glow, 
And  Life,  and  Love,  and  gladness  that  Love  brings 
Laughed  in  the  music,  like  a  child  that  sings. 

Master  of  each,  Arch-Master  !    We  that  still 
Wait  in  the  verge  and  outskirt  of  the  Hill 
Look  upward  lonely  —  lonely  to  the  height 
Where  thou  has  climbed,  for  ever,  out  of  sight  I 


121 


MEMORIAL   1/ERSES. 


ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON. 

EM1GRAVIT,    OCTOBER   VI.,    MDCCCXCII. 

f~*  RIEF  there  will  be,  and  may, 

When  King  Apollo's  bay 
Is  cut  midwise  ; 
Grief  that  a  song  is  stilled, 
Grief  for  the  unfulfilled 
Singer  that  dies. 

Not  so  we  mourn  thee  now, 
Not  so  we  grieve  that  thou, 
MASTER,  art  passed, 
Since  thou  thy  song  didst  raise, 
Through  the  full  round  of  days, 
E'en  to  the  last. 


Grief  there  may  be,  and  will, 
When  that  the  Singer  still 
Sinks  in  the  song  ; 
When  that  the  winge'd  rhyme 
Fails  of  the  promised  prime, 
Ruined  and  wrong. 


ALFRED,  LORD   TENNYSON. 

Not  thus  we  mourn  thee  —  we  — 
Not  thus  we  grieve  for  thee, 
MASTER  and  Friend  ; 
Since,  like  a  clearing  flame, 
Clearer  thy  pure  song  came 
E'en  to  the  end. 


Nay  —  nor  for  thee  we  grieve 
E'en  as  for  those  that  leave 
Life  without  name ; 
Lost  as  the  stars  that  set, 
Empty  of  men's  regret, 
Empty  of  fame. 

Rather  we  count  thee  one 
Who,  when  his  race  is  run, 
Layeth  him  down, 
Calm  —  through  all  coming  days, 
Filled  with  a  nation's  praise, 
Filled  with  renown. 


123 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE    POET   AND    THE    CRITICS. 

T  F  those  who  wield  the  Rod  forget, 
Tis  truly  —  Quis  cusiodlet! 

A  certain  Bard  (as  Bards  will  do) 

Dressed  up  his  Poems  for  Review. 

His  Type  was  plain,  his  Title  clear ; 

His  Frontispiece  by  FOURDRINIER. 

Moreover,  he  had  on  the  Back 

A  sort  of  sheepskin  Zodiac  ;  — 

A  Mask,  a  Harp,  an  Owl,  —  in  fine, 

A  neat  and  "  classical  "  Design. 

But  the  in-Side  ?  —  Well,  good  or  bad, 

The  Inside  was  the  best  he  had  : 

Much  Memory,  —  more  Imitation;  — 

Some  Accidents  of  Inspiration  ;  — 

Some  Essays  in  that  finer  Fashion 

Where  Fancy  takes  the  place  of  Passion  ;  — 

And  some  (of  course)  more  roughly  wrought 

To  catch  the  Advocates  of  Thought. 

In  the  less-crowded  Age  of  ANNE, 

Our  Bard  had  been  a  favoured  Man  ; 
127 


FABLES   OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Fortune,  more  chary  with  the  Sickle, 

Had  ranked  him  next  to  GARTH  or  TICKELL  ;• 

He  might  have  even  dared  to  hope 

A  Line's  Malignity  from  POPE  ! 

But  now,  when  Folks  are  hard  to  please, 

And  Poets  are  as  thick  as —  Peas, 

The  Fates  are  not  so  prone  to  flatter, 

Unless,  indeed,  a  Friend  ....  No  Matter. 


The  Book,  then,  had  a  minor  Credit : 
The  Critics  took,  and  doubtless  read  it. 
Said  A.  —  These  little  Songs  display 
No  lyric  Gift ;  but  still  a  Ray,  — 
A  Promise.     They  will  do  no  Harm. 
'Twas  kindly,  if  not  very  warm. 
Said  B.  —  The  Author  may,  in  time, 
Acquire  the  Rudiments  of  Rhyme  : 
His  Efforts  now  are  scarcely  Verse. 
This,  certainly,  could  not  be  worse. 


Sorely  discomfited,  our  Bard 
Worked  for  another  ten  Years  —  hard. 
Meanwhile  the  World,  unmoved,  went  on  ; 
New  Stars  shot  up,  shone  out,  were  gone  ; 
Before  his  second  Volume  came 
His  Critics  had  forgot  his  Name : 
128 


THE  POET  AND   THE  CRITICS. 

And  who,  forsooth,  is  bound  to  know 
Each  Laureate  in  embryo  ! 
They  tried  and  tested  him,  no  less,— 
The  sworn  Assayers  of  the  Press. 
Said  A.  — The  Author  may,  in  Time  . 
Or  much  what  B.  had  said  of  Rhyme. 
Then  B.  —  These  little  Songs  display  . 
And  so  forth,  in  the  sense  of  A. 
Over  the  Bard  I  throw  a  Veil. 

There  is  no  MORAL  to  this  Tale. 


VOL.  n. —9 


129 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE    TOYMAN. 


VK  /"1TH  Verse,  is  Form  the  first,  or  Sense  ? 
Hereon  men  waste  their  Eloquence. 


"Sense  (cry  the  one  Side),  Sense,  of  course. 

How  can  you  lend  your  Theme  its  Force  ? 

How  can  you  be  direct  and  clear, 

Concise,  and  (best  of  all)  sincere, 

If  you  must  pen  your  Strain  sublime 

In  Bonds  of  Measure  and  of  Rhyme? 

Who  ever  heard  true  Grief  relate 

Its  heartfelt  Woes  in  '  six'  and  '  eight '  ? 

Or  felt  his  manly  Bosom  swell 

Beneath  a  French-made  Villanelle  t 

How  can  your  Mens  divinior  sing 

Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  Ring, 

Where  she  must  chant  her  Orphic  Tale 

In  just  so  many  Lines,  or  fail  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Form  is  the  first  (the  Others  bawl)  ; 
If  not,  why  write  in  Verse  at  all  ? 
Why  not  your  throbbing  Thoughts  expose 
(If  verse  be  such  Restraint)  in  Prose? 
130 


THE   TOYMAN. 

For  surely  if  you  speak  your  Soul 
Most  freely  where  there's  least  Control, 
It  follows  you  must  speak  it  best 
By  Rhyme  (or  Reason)  unreprest. 
Blest  Hour  !  be  not  delayed  too  long, 
When  Britain  frees  her  Slaves  of  Song ; 
And  barred  no  more  by  Lack  of  Skill, 
The  Mob  may  crowd  Parnassus  Hill !  .  . 


Just  at  this  Point  —  for  you  must  know, 

All  this  was  but  the  To-and-fro 

Of  MATT  and  DICK  who  played  vith  Thought, 

And  lingered  longer  than  they  ought 

(So  pleasant  'tis  to  tap  one's  Box 

And  trifle  round  a  Paradox  !)  — 

There  came  —  but  I  forgot  to  say, 

'Twas  in  the  Mall,  the  Month  was  May  — 

There  came  a  Fellow  where  they  sat, 

His  Elf-locks  peeping  through  his  Hat, 

Who  bore  a  Basket.     Straight  his  Load 

He  set  upon  the  Ground,  and  showed 

His  newest  Toy  —  a  Card  with  Strings. 

On  this  side  was  a  Bird  with  Wings, 

On  that,  a  Cage.     You  twirled,  and  lo  ! 

The  Twain  were  one. 

Sa'id  MATT,  "  E'en  so. 


FABLES  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Here's  the  Solution  in  a  Word  :  — 
Form  is  the  Cage  and  Sense  the  Bird. 
The  Poet  twirls  them  in  his  Mind, 
And  wins  the  Trick  with  both  combined. 


132 


THE  SUCCESSFUL  AUTHOR. 


THE   SUCCESSFUL    AUTHOR. 

\\  7  HEN  Fate  presents  us  with  the  Bays, 
We  prize  the  Praiser,  not  the  Praise. 
We  scarcely  think  our  Fame  eternal 
If  vouched  for  by  the  Farthing  Journal; 
But  when  the  Craftsman  s  self  has  spoken, 
We  take  it  for  a  certain  Token. 
This  an  Example  best  will  show, 
Derived  from  DENNIS  DIDEROT. 


A  hackney  Author,  who'd  essayed 
All  Hazards  of  the  scribbling  Trade  ; 
And  failed  to  live  by  every  Mode, 
From  Persian  Tale  to  Birthday  Ode ; 
Embarked  at  last,  thro1  pure  Starvation, 
In  Theologic  Speculation. 
'Tis  commonly  affirmed  his  Pen 
Had  been  most  orthodox  till  then  ; 
But  oft,  as  SOCRATES  has  said, 
The  Stomach's  stronger  than  the  Head  ; 
And,  for  a  sudden  Change  of  Creed, 
There  is  no  Jesuit  like  Need. 
Then,  too,  'twas  cheap  ;  he  took  it  all, 
'33 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

By  force  of  Habit,  from  the  Gaul. 
He  showed  (the  Trick  is  nowise  new) 
That  Nothing  we  believe  is  true  ; 
But  chiefly  that  Mistake  is  rife 
Touching  the  point  of  After-Life  ; 
Here  all  were  wrong  from  PLATO  down: 
His  Price  (in  Boards)  was  Half-a-Crown. 
The  Thing  created  quite  a  Scare  :  — 
He  got  a  Letter  from  VOLTAIRE. 
Naming  him  Arm  and  Confrere ; 
Besides  two  most  attractive  Offers 
Of  Chaplaincies  from  noted  Scoffers. 
He  fell  forthwith  his  Head  to  lift, 
To  talk  of  "  I  and  DR.  Sw— FT  ;  " 
And  brag,  at  Clubs,  as  one  who  spoke, 
On  equal  Terms,  with  BOLINGBROKE. 
But,  at  the  last,  a  Missive  came 
That  put  the  Copestone  to  his  Fame. 
The  Boy  who  brought  it  would  not  wait : 
It  bore  a  Covent-Garden  Date  ;  — 
A  woful  Sheet  with  doubtful  Ink, 
And  Air  of  Bridewell  or  the  Clink. 
It  ran  in  this  wise  :  —  Learned  Sir! 
We,  whose  Subscriptions  follow  here, 
Desire  to  state  our  Fellow-feeling 
In  this  Religion  you  re  revealing. 
You  make  it  plain  that  if  so  be 


THE  SUCCESSFUL   AUTHOR. 

We  'scape  on  Earth  from  Tyburn  Tree, 
There's  nothing  left  for  us  to  fear 
In  this  —  or  any  other  Sphere. 
We  offer  you  our  Thanks;  and  hope 
Your  Honor,  too,  may  cheat  the  Rope ! 
With  that  came  all  the  Names  beneath, 
As  BLUESKIN,  JERRY  CLINCH,  MACHEATH, 
BET  CARELESS,  and  the  Rest  —  a  Score 
Of  Rogues  and  Bona  Robas  more. 

This  Newgate  Calendar  he  read  : 
'Tis  not  recorded  what  he  said. 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE    DILETTANT. 

*~PHE  most  oppressive  Form  of  Cant 
Is  that  of  your  Art-Dilettant :  — 
Or  rather  "was."    The  Race,  I  own, 
To-day  is,  happily,  unknown. 

A  Painter,  now  by  Fame  forgot, 
Had  painted  —  'tis  no  matter  what ; 
Enough  that  he  resolved  to  try 
The  Verdict  of  a  critic  Eye. 
The  Friend  he  sought  made  no  Pretence 
To  more  than  candid  Common-sense, 
Nor  held  himself  from  Fault  exempt. 
He  praised,  it  seems,  the  whole  Attempt. 
Then,  pausing  long,  showed  here  and  there 
That  Parts  required  a  nicer  Care,  — 
A  closer  Thought.     The  Artist  heard, 
Expostulated,  chafed,  demurred. 

Just  then  popped  in  a  passing  Beau, 
Half  Pertness,  half  Pulvilio  ;  — 
One  of  those  Mushroom  Growths  that  spring 
From  Grand  Tours  and  from  Tailoring  ;  — 
And  dealing  much  in  terms  of  Art 
136 


THE  DILETT4NT. 

Picked  up  at  Sale  and  auction  Mart. 
Straight  to  the  Masterpiece  he  ran 
With  lifted  Glass,  and  thus  began, 
Mumbling  as  fast  as  he  could  speak  :  — 
"  Sublime  !  —  prodigious  1  —  truly  Greek  ! 
That  'Air  of  Head  '  is  just  divine  ; 
That  contour  GUIDO,  every  line  ; 
That  Forearm,  too,  has  quite  the  Gusto 
Of  the  third  Manner  of  ROBUSTO  .  .  .  ." 
Then,  with  a  Simper  and  a  Cough, 
He  skipped  a  little  farther  off:  — 
"The  middle  Distance,  too,  is  placed 
Quite  in  the  best  Italian  Taste  ; 
And  Nothing  could  be  more  effective 
Than  the  Ordonnance  and  Perspective  .... 
You've  sold  it  ? —  No  ?  —  Then  take  my  word, 
I  shall  speak  of  it  to  MY  LORD. 
What !  —  I  insist.     Don't  stir,  I  beg. 
Adieu  !  "     With  that  he  made  a  Leg, 
Offered  on  either  Side  his  Box,  — 
So  took  his  Virtti  off  to  COCK'S. 

The  Critic,  with  a  Shrug,  once  more 
Turned  to  the  Canvas  as  before. 
"  Nay,"  —  said  the  Painter — "  I  allow 
The  Worst  that  you  can  tell  me  now. 
Tis  plain  my  Art  must  go  to  School, 
To  win  such  Praises  —  from  a  FOOL  !  " 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE   TWO    PAINTERS. 

T  N  Art  some  hold  Themselves  content 

If  they  but  compass  what  they  meant ; 
Others  prefer,  their  Purpose  gained, 
Still  to  find  Something  unattained  — 
Something  whereto  they  vaguely  grope 
With  no  more  Aid  than  that  of  Hope. 
Which  are  the  Wiser  ?     Who  shall  say  I 
The  prudent  Follower  of  GAY 
Declines  to  speak  for  either  View, 
But  sets  his  Fable  'twixt  the  two. 


Once  —  'twas  in  good  Queen  ANNA'S  Time 
While  yet  in  this  benighted  Clime 
The  GENIUS  of  the  ARTS  (now  known 
On  mouldy  Pediments  alone) 
Protected  all  the  Men  of  Mark, 
Two  Painters  met  Her  in  the  Park. 
Whether  She  wore  the  Robe  of  Air 
Portrayed  by  VERRIO  and  LAGUERRE  ; 
Or,  like  BELINDA,  trod  this  Earth, 
Equipped  with  Hoop  of  monstrous  Girth, 
And  armed  at  every  Point  for  Slaughter 
138 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 

With  Essences  and  Orange-water, 

I  know  not :  but  it  seems  that  then, 

After  some  talk  of  Brush  and  Pen,  — 

Some  chat  of  Art  both  High  and  Low, 

Of  VAN'S  "Goose-Pie "  and  KNELLER'S  "  A/o/,"- 

The  Lady,  as  a  Goddess  should, 

Bade  Them  ask  of  Her  what  They  would. 

"Then,  Madam,  my  request,"  says  BRISK, 

Giving  his  Rjmillie  a  whisk, 

"  Is  that  your  Majesty  will  crown 

My  humble  Efforts  with  Renown. 

Let  me,  I  beg  it  —  Thanks  to  You  — 

Be  praised  for  Everything  I  do, 

Whether  I  paint  a  Man  of  Note, 

Or  only  plan  a  Petticoat." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  other,  "  I  confess" 

(This  One  was  plainer  in  his  Dress, 

And  even  poorly  clad),  "  for  me, 

I  scorn  Your  Popularity. 

Why  should  I  care  to  catch  at  once 

The  Point  of  View  of  every  Dunce  ? 

Let  me  do  well,  indeed,  but  find 

The  Fancy  first,  the  Work  behind  ; 

Nor  wholly  touch  the  thing  I  wanted  .   .   .  ." 

The  Goddess  both  Petitions  granted. 

Each  in  his  Way,  achieved  Success  ; 

But  One  grew  Great.    And  which  One  r   Guess 


FABLES   OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE   CLAIMS   OF   THE   MUSE. 

'"POO  oft  we  hide  our  Frailties'  Blame 

Beneath  some  simple-sounding  Name  1 
So  Folks,  who  in  gilt  Coaches  ride, 
Will  call  Display  but  Proper  Pride ; 
So  Spendthrifts,  who  their  Acres  lose, 
Curse  not  their  Folly  but  the  Jews ; 
So  Madam,  when  her  Roses  faint, 
Resorts  to  ....  anything  but  Paint. 

An  honest  Uncle,  who  had  plied 

His  Trade  of  Mercer  in  Cheapside, 

Until  his  Name  on  'Change  was  found 

Good  for  some  Thirty  Thousand  Pound, 

Was  burdened  with  an  Heir  inclined 

To  thoughts  of  quite  a  different  Kind. 

His  Nephew  dreamed  of  Naught  but  Verse 

From  Morn  to  Night,  and,  what  was  worse, 

He  quitted  all  at  length  to  follow 

That  "sneaking,  whey-faced  God,  APOLLO." 

In  plainer  Words,  he  ran  up  Bills 

At  Child's,  at  Balsons  and  at  Will's; 

Discussed  the  Claims  of  rival  Bards 
140 


THE  CL/tlMS  OF  THE  MUSE. 

At  Midnight,  —  with  a  Pack  of  Cards  ; 

Or  made  excuse  for  "  t'other  Bottle" 

Over  a  point  in  ARISTOTLE. 

This  could  not  last,  and  like  his  Betters 

He  found,  too  soon,  the  Cost  of  Letters. 

Back  to  his  Uncle's  House  he  flew, 

Confessing  that  he'd  not  a  Sou. 

1Tis  true,  his  Reasons,  if  sincere, 

Were  more  poetical  than  clear  : 

41  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  I  name  no  Names  : 

The  Muse,  dear  Sir,  the  Muse  has  claims." 

His  Uncle,  who,  behind  his  Till, 

Knew  less  of  Pindus  than  Snow-Hill, 

Looked  grave,  but  thinking  (as  Men  say) 

That  Youth  but  once  can  have  its  Day, 

Equipped  anew  his  Pride  and  Hope 

To  frisk  it  on  Parnassus  Slope. 

In  one  short  Month  he  sought  the  Door 

More  shorn  and  ragged  than  before. 

This  Time  he  showed  but  small  Contrition, 

And  gloried  in  his  mean  Condition. 

"  The  greatest  of  our  Race,"  he  said, 

"Through  Asian  Cities  begged  his  Bread. 

The  Muse  —  the  Muse  delights  to  see 

Not  Broadcloth  but  Philosophy ! 

Who  doubts  of  this  her  Honour  shames, 

But  (as  you  know)  she  has  her  Claims  .  .  .  ." 
141 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

"  Friend,"  quoth  his  Uncle  then,  "  I  doubt 

This  scurvy  Craft  that  you're  about 

Will  lead  your  philosophic  Feet 

Either  to  Bedlam  or  the  Fleet. 

Still,  as  I  would  not  have  you  lack, 

Go  get  some  Broadcloth  to  your  Back, 

And  —  if  it  please  this  precious  Muse  — 

'Twere  well  to  purchase  decent  Shoes. 

Though    harkye,   Sir  ...  ."     The    Youth  was 

gone, 
Before  the  good  Man  could  go  on. 


And  yet  ere  long  again  was  seen 

That  Votary  of  Hippocrene. 

As  along  Cheap  his  Way  he  took, 

His  Uncle  spied  him  by  a  Brook, 

Not  such  as  Nymphs  Castalian  pour,  — 

'Twas  but  the  Kennel,  nothing  more. 

His  Plight  was  plain  by  every  Sign 

Of  Idiot  Smile  and  Stains  of  Wine. 

He  strove  to  rise,  and  wagged  his  Head  — 

"  The  Muse,  dear  Sir,  the  Muse —  "  he  said. 

"Muse!"  quoth  the  Other,  in  a  Fury, 

"The  Muse    shan't  serve  you,  I  assure  ye. 

She's  just  some  wanton,  idle  Jade 

That  makes  young  Fools  forget  their  Trade,  — 
142 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  THE  MUSE. 

Who  should  be  whipped,  if  I'd  my  Will, 
From  Charing  Cross  to  Ludgate  Hill. 
She's  just  .  .  .  ."     But  he  began  to  stutter, 
So  left  SIR  GRACELESS  in  the  Gutter. 


FABLES   OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


THE   'SQUIRE   AT   VAUXHALL. 

1\J  OTH I NG  so  idle  as  to  waste 

This  Life  disputing  upon  Taste; 
And  most  —  let  that  sad  Truth  be  written  — 
In  this  contentious  Land  of  Britain, 
Where  each  one  holds  "  it  seems  to  me" 
Equivalent  to  Q.  E.  D., 
And  if  you  dare  to  doubt  his  Word 
Proclaims  you  Blockhead  and  absurd. 
And  then,  too  often,  the  Debate 
Is  not  'twixt  First  and  Second-rate, 
Some  narrow  Issue,  where  a  Touch 
Of  more  or  less  can't  matter  much, 
But,  and  this  makes  the  Case  so  sad, 
Betwixt  undoubted  Good  and  Bad. 
Nay,  —  there  are  some  so  strangely  wrought, 
So  warped  and  twisted  in  their  Thought,  — 
That,  if  the  Fact  be  but  confest, 
They  like  the  baser  Thing  the  best. 
Take  BOTTOM,  who  for  one,  'tis  clear, 
Possessed  a  "  reasonable  Ear  ;  " 
He  might  have  had  at  his  Command 
The  Symphonies  of  Fairy-Land  ; 
144 


THE  'SQUIRE  AT  VAUXHALL 

Well,  our  immortal  SHAKESPEAR  owns 

The  Oaf  preferred  the  "  Tongs  and  Bones  !  " 


'Squire  HOMESPUN  from  Clod-Hall  rode  down, 

As  the  Phrase  is  —  "to  see  the  Town  ;  " 

(The  Town,  in  those  Days,  mostly  lay 

Betwixt  the  Tavern  and  the  Play.) 

Like  all  their  Worships  the  J.P.'s, 

He  put  up  at  the  Hercules; 

Then  sallied  forth  on  Shanks  his  Mare, 

Rather  than  jolt  it  in  a  Chair,  — 

A  curst,  new-fangled  Little-Ease, 

That  knocks  your  Nose  against  your  Knees. 

For  the  good  'Squire  was  Country-bred, 

And  had  strange  Notions  in  his  Head, 

Which  made  him  see  in  every  Cur 

The  starveling  Breed  of  Hanover ; 

He  classed  your  Kickshaws  and  Ragoos 

With  Popery  and  Wooden  Shoes  ; 

Railed  at  all  Foreign  Tongues  as  Lingo, 

And  sighed  o'er  Chaos  Wine  for  Stingo. 


Hence,  as  he  wandered  to  and  fro, 
Nothing  could  please  him,  high  or  low. 
As  Savages  at  Ships  of  War 
He  looked  unawed  on  Temple-Bar  ; 

VOL.  II. —  IO  145 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Scarce  could  conceal  his  Discontent 
With  Fish-Street  and  the  Monument ; 
And  might  (except  at  Feeding-Hour) 
Have  scorned  the  Lion  in  the  Tower, 
But  that  the  Lion's  Race  was  run, 
And  —  for  the  Moment  —  there  was  none. 


At  length,  blind  Fate,  that  drives  us  all, 
Brought  him  at  Even  to  Vauxhall, 
What  Time  the  eager  Matron  jerks 
Her  slow  Spouse  to  the  Water-Works, 
And  the  coy  Spinster,  half-afraid 
Consults  the  Hermit  in  the  Shade. 
Dazed  with  the  Din  and  Crowd,  the  'Squire 
Sank  in  a  Seat  before  the  Choir. 
The  FAUSTINETTA,  fair  and  showy, 
Warbled  an  Air  from  Arsinoe, 
Playing  her  Bosom  and  her  Eyes 
As  Swans  do  when  they  agonize. 
Alas  !  to  some  a  Mug  of  Ale 
Is  better  than  an  Orphic  Tale! 
The  'Squire  grew  dull,  the  'Squire  grew  bored 
His  chin  dropt  down  ;  he  slept ;  he  snored. 
Then,  straying  thro'  the  "  poppied  Reign," 
He  dreamed  him  at  Clod-Hall  again  ; 
He  heard  once  more  the  well-known  Sounds, 
The  Crack  of  Whip,  the  Cry  of  Hounds. 
146 


THE  'SQUIRE  AT  YAUXHALL. 

He  rubbed  his  Eyes,  woke  up,  and  lo  1 

A  Change  had  come  upon  the  Show. 

Where  late  the  Singer  stood,  a  Fellow, 

Clad  in  a  Jockey's  Coat  of  Yellow, 

Was  mimicking  a  Cock  that  crew. 

Then  came  the  Cry  of  Hounds  anew, 

Yoicks  !  Stole  Away  I  and  harking  back; 

Then  Ringwood  leading  up  the  Pack. 

The  'Squire  in  Transport  slapped  his  Knee 

At  this  most  hugeous  Pleasantry. 

The  sawn  Wood  followed  ;  last  of  all 

The  Man  brought  something  in  a  Shawl, — 

Something  that  struggled,  scraped,  and  squeaked 

As  Porkers  do,  whose  tails  are  tweaked. 

Our  honest  'Squire  could  scarcely  sit 

So  excellent  he  thought  the  Wit. 

But  when  Sir  Wag  drew  off  the  Sheath 

And  showed  there  was  no  Pig  beneath, 

His  pent-up  Wonder,  Pleasure,  Awe, 

Exploded  in  a  long  Guffaw  : 

And,  to  his  dying  Day,  he'd  swear 

That  Naught  in  Town  the  Bell  could  bear 

From  "  Jockey  \vi'  the  Yellow  Coat 

That  had  a  Farm- Yard  in  his  Throat  !  " 

MORAL  THE  FIRST  you  may  discover  : 
The  'Squire  was  like  TITANIA'S  lover  ; 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

He  put  a  squeaking  Pig  before 
The  Harmony  of  CLAYTON'S  Score. 

MORAL  THE  SECOND  —  not  so  clear  ; 
But  still  it  shall  be  added  here : 
He  praised  the  Thing  he  understood  ; 
'Twere  well  if  every  Critic  would. 


148 


THE  CLIMACTERIC. 


THE    CLIMACTERIC. 

"\1[  7"HEN  do  the  reasoning  Powers  decline? 

The  Ancients  said  at  Forty-Nine. 
At  Forty-Nine  behoves  it  then 
To  quit  the  Inkhorn  and  the  Pen, 
Since  ARISTOTLE  so  decreed. 
Premising  thus,  we  now  proceed. 


In  that  thrice-favoured  Northern  Land, 
Where  most  the  Flowers  of  Thought  expand, 
And  all  things  nebulous  grow  clear, 
Through  Spectacles  and  Lager-Beer, 
There  lived,  at  Dumpelsheim  the  Lesser, 
A  certain  High-Dutch  Herr  Professor. 
Than  GROTIUS  more  alert  and  quick, 
More  logical  than  BURGERSDYCK, 
His  Lectures  both  so  much  transcended, 
That  far  and  wide  his  Fame  extended, 
Proclaiming  him  to  every  clime 
Within  a  Mile  of  Dumpelsheim. 
But  chief  he  taught,  by  Day  and  Night, 
The  Doctrine  of  the  Stagirite, 
Proving  it  fixed  beyond  Dispute, 
149 


FABLES  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

In  Ways  that  none  could  well  refute  ; 
For  if  by  Chance  'twas  urged  that  Men 
O'er-stepped  the  Limit  now  and  then, 
He'd  show  unanswerably  still 
Either  that  all  they  did  was  "  Nil," 
Or  else  'twas  marked  by  Indication 
Of  grievous  mental  Degradation  : 
Nay  —  he  could  even  trace,  they  say, 
That  Degradation  to  a  Day. 

The  Years  rolled  on,  and  as  they  flew, 

More  famed  the  Herr  Professor  grew, 

His  "Locus  of  the  Pineal  Gland" 

(A  Masterpiece  he  long  had  planned) 

Had  reached  the  End  of  Book.  Eleven, 

And  he  was  nearing  Forty-Seven. 

Admirers  had  not  long  to  wait ; 

The  last  Book  came  at  Forty-Eight, 

And  should  have  been  the  Heart  and  Soul- 

The  Crown  and  Summit  —  of  the  whole. 

But  now  the  oddest  Thing  ensued  ; 

'Twas  so  insufferably  crude, 

So  feeble  and  so  poor,  'twas  plain 

The  Writer's  Mind  was  on  the  wane. 

Nothing  could  possibly  be  said  ; 

E'en  Friendship's  self  must  hang  the  head, 

While  jealous  Rivals,  scarce  so  civil, 


THE  CLIMACTERIC. 

Denounced  it  openly  as  <l  Drivel." 
Never  was  such  Collapse.     In  brief, 
The  poor  Professor  died  of  Grief. 

With  fitting  mortuary  Rhyme 

They  buried  him  at  Dumpelsheim, 

And  as  they  sorrowing  set  about 

A  "  Short  Memoir,"  the  Truth  came  out. 

He  had  been  older  than  he  knew. 

The  Parish  Clerk  had  put  a  "  2  " 

In  place  of  "  Nought,"  and  made  his  Date 

Of  Birth  a  Brace  of  Years  too  late. 

When  he  had  written  Book  the  Last, 

His  true  Climacteric  had  past ! 


MORAL. — To  estimate  your  Worth, 
Be  certain  as  to  date  of  Birth. 


TALES   IN   RHYME. 


JS3 


THE   VIRGIN    WITH   THE   BELLS. 

IY/F  UCH  strange  is  true.     And  yet  so  much 

Dan  Time  thereto  of  doubtful  lays 
He  blurs  them  both  beneath  his  touch  :  — 

In  this  our  tale  his  part  he  plays. 
At  Florence,  so  the  legend  tells, 
There  stood  a  church  that  men  would  praise 

(Even  where  Art  the  most  excels) 
For  works  of  price  ;  but  chief  for  one 
They  called  the  "  Virgin  with  the  Bells." 

Gracious  she  was,  and  featly  done, 
With  crown  of  gold  about  the  hair, 
And  robe  of  blue  with  stars  thereon, 

And  sceptre  in  her  hand  did  bear; 
And  o'er  her,  in  an  almond  tree, 
Three  little  golden  bells  there  were, 

Writ  with  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 
None  knew  from  whence  she  came  of  old. 
Nor  whose  the  sculptor's  name  should  be 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Of  great  or  small.     But  this  they  told  :  — 
That  once  from  out  the  blaze  of  square, 
And  bickering  folk  that  bought  and  sold, 

More  moved  no  doubt  of  heat  than  prayer, 
Came  to  the  church  an  Umbrian, 
Lord  of  much  gold  and  champaign  fair, 

But,  for  all  this,  a  hard,  haught  man. 
To  whom  the  priests,  in  humbleness, 
At  once  to  beg  for  alms  began, 

Praying  him  grant  of  his  excess 

Such  as  for  poor  men's  bread  might  pay, 

Or  give  their  saint  a  gala-dress. 

Thereat  with  scorn  he  answered  —  "  Nay, 
Most  Reverend  !  Far  too  well  ye  know, 
By  guile  and  wile,  the  fox's  way 

"  To  swell  the  Church's  overflow. 

But  ere  from  me  the  least  carline 

Ye  win,  this  summer's  sky  shall  snow  ; 

"  Or,  likelier  still,  your  doll's-eyed  queen 
Shall  ring  her  bells  ....  but  not  of  craft. 
By  Bacchus  1  ye  are  none  too  lean 
'56 


THE  VIRGIN  WITH   THE  BELLS. 

"  For  fasting  folk  !  "     With  that  he  laughed, 
And  so,  across  the  porphyry  floor, 
His  hand  upon  his  dagger-haft, 

Strode,  and  of  these  was  seen  no  more. 
Nor,  of  a  truth,  much  marvelled  they 
At  those  his  words,  since  gear  and  store 

Oft  dower  shrunk  souls.     But,  on  a  day, 
While  yet  again  throughout  the  square, 
The  buyers  in  their  noisy  way, 

Chaffered  around  the  basket  ware, 
It  chanced  (I  but  the  tale  reveal, 
Nor  true  nor  false  therein  declare)  — 

It  chanced  that  when  the  priest  would  kneel 
Before  the  taper's  flickering  flame, 
Sudden  a  little  tremulous  peal 

From  out  the  Virgin's  altar  came. 
And  they  that  heard  must  fain  recall 
The  Umbrian,  and  the  words  of  shame 

Spoke  in  his  pride,  and  therewithal 
Came  news  how,  at  that  very  date 
And  hour  of  time  was  fixed  his  fall, 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Who,  of  the  Duke,  was  banned  the  State, 
And  all  his  goods,  and  lands  as  well, 
To  Holy  Church  were  confiscate. 

Such  is  the  tale  the  Frati  tell. 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 


A  TALE  OF    POLYPHEME. 

"^"THERE'S   nothing  new"  — Not  that  I   go 

so  far 

As  he  who  also  said  "  There's  nothing  true," 
Since,  on  the  contrary,  I  hold  there  are 

Surviving  still  a  verity  or  two  ; 
But,  as  to  novelty,  in  my  conviction, 
There's  nothing  new,  — especially  in  fiction. 

Hence,  at  the  outset,  I  make  no  apology, 
If  this  my  story  is  as  old  as  Time, 

Being,  indeed,  that  idyll  of  mythology, — 
The  Cyclops'  love, — which,  somewhat  varied, 
I'm 

To  tell  once  more,  the  adverse  Muse  permitting, 

In  easy  rhyme,  and  phrases  neatly  fitting. 

"Once  on  a  time"  —  there's  nothing  new,   I 

said  — 

It  may  be  fifty  years  ago  or  more, 
Beside  a  lonely  posting-road  that  led 
Seaward  from  Town,  there  used  to  stand  of 
yore, 

159 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

With  low-built  bar  and  old  bow-window  shady 
An  ancient  Inn,  the  "  Dragon  and  the  Lady." 


Say  that  by  chance,  wayfaring  Reader  mine, 
You  cast  a  shoe,  and  at  this  dusty  Dragon, 

Where  beast  and  man  were  equal  on  the  sign, 
Inquired  at  once  for  Blacksmith  and  for  flagon  : 

The  landlord  showed  you,  while  you  drank  your 
hops, 

A  road-side  break  beyond  the  straggling  shops. 


And  so  directed,  thereupon  you  led 
Your  halting  roadster  to  a  kind  of  pass, 

This  you  descended  with  a  crumbling  tread, 
And  found  the  sea  beneath  you  like  a  glass  ; 

And  soon,  beside  a  building  partly  walled  — 

Half  hut,  half  cave  —  you  raised  your  voice  and 
called. 


Then  a  dog  growled  ;  and  straightway  there  began 
Tumult  within  —  for,  bleating  with  affright, 

A  goat  burst  out.  escaping  from  the  can  ; 

And,  following  close,  rose  slowly  into  sight  — 

Blind  of  one  eye,  and  black  with  toil  and  tan  — 

An  uncouth,  limping,  heavy-shouldered  man. 
160 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 

Part  smith,  part  seaman,  and  part  shepherd  too  : 
You  scarce  knew  which,  as,  pausing  with  the 
pail 

Half  filled  with  goat's  milk,  silently  he  drew 
An  anvil  forth,  and  reaching  shoe  and  nail, 

Bared  a  red  forearm,  bringing  into  view 

Anchors  and  hearts  in  shadowy  tattoo. 

And  then  he  lit  his  fire  ....  But  I  dispense 
Henceforth  with  you,  my  Reader,  and    your 
horse. 

As  being  but  a  colorable  pretence 
To  bring  an  awkward  hero  in  perforce  ; 

Since  this  our  smith,  for  reasons  never  known, 

To  most  society  preferred  his  own. 

Women  declared  that  he'd  an  "  Evil  Eye,"  — 
This  in  a  sense  was  true  —  he  had  but  one  ; 

Men,  on  the  other  hand,  alleged  him  shy  : 
We  sometimes  say  so  of  the  friends  we  shun ; 

But,  wrong  or  right,  suffices  to  affirm  it  — 

The  Cyclops  lived  a  veritable  hermit, — 

Dwelling  below  the  cliff,  beside  the  sea, 
Caved  like  an  ancient  British  Troglodyte, 

Milking  his  goat  at  eve,  and  it  may  be, 
Spearing  the  fish  along  the  flats  at  night, 

VOL.  II.— II  Xl 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Until,  at  last,  one  April  evening  mild, 
Came  to  the  Inn  a  Lady  and  a  Child. 

The  Lady  was  a  nullity  ;  the  Child 

One  of  those  bright  bewitching  little  creatures, 
Who,  if  she  once  but  shyly  looked  and  smiled, 

Would  soften  out  the  ruggedest  of  features ; 
Fragile  and  slight,  —  a  very  fay  for  size,  — 
With  pale  town-cheeks,  and   "clear  germander 
eyes." 

Nurses,  no  doubt,  might  name  her  "  somewhat 

wild  ;  " 

And  pedants,  possibly,  pronounce  her  "slow  ;  " 
Or  corset-makers  add,  that  for  a  child, 

She  needed  "cultivation;"  —  all  I  know 
Is  that  whene'er  she  spoke,  or  laughed,  or  romped, 

you 
Felt  in  each  act  the  beauty  of  impromptu. 

The  Lady  was  a  nullity  —  a  pale, 

Nerveless  and  pulseless  quasi-invalid, 

Who,  lest  the  ozone  should  in  aught  avail, 
Remained  religiously  indoors  to  read  ; 

So  that,  in  wandering  at  her  will,  the  Child 

Did,  in  reality,  run  "  somewhat  wild." 
162 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 

At  first  but  peering  at  the  sanded  floor 
And  great  shark  jaw-bone  in  the  cosy  bar ; 

Then  watching  idly  from  the  dusky  door, 
The  noisy  advent  of  a  coach  or  car ; 

Then  stealing  out  to  wonder  at  the  fate 

Of  blistered  Ajax  by  the  garden  gate, — 

Some  old  ship's  figure-head  —  until  at  last, 
Straying  with  each  excursion  more  and  more, 

She  reached  the  limits  of  the  road,  and  passed, 
Plucking  the  pansies,  downward  to  the  shore. 

And  so,  as  you,  respected  Reader,  showed, 

Came  to  the  smith's  "desirable  abode." 

There  by  the  cave  the  occupant  she  found, 
Weaving  a  crate  ;  and,  with  a  gladsome  cry, 

The  dog  frisked  out,  although  the  Cyclops  frowned 
With  all  the  terrors  of  his  single  eye  ; 

Then  from  a  mound  came  running,  too,  the  goat, 

Uttering  her  plaintive,  desultory  note. 

The  Child  stood  wondering  at  the  silent  man, 
Doubtful  to  go  or  stay,  when  presently 

She  felt  a  plucking,  for  the  goat  began 
To  crop  the  trail  of  twining  briony 

She  held  behind  her ;  so  that,  laughing,  she 

Turned  her  light  steps,  retreating,  to  the  sea. 
163 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

But  the  goat  followed  her  on  eager  feet, 
And  therewithal  an  air  so  grave  and  mild, 

Coupled  with  such  a  deprecatory  bleat 
Of  injured  confidence,  that  soon  the  Child 

Filled  the  lone  shore  with  louder  merriment, 

And  e'en  the  Cyclops'  heavy  brow  unbent. 

Thus  grew  acquaintanceship  between  the  pair, 
The  girl  and  goat;  —  for  thenceforth,  day  by 

day, 
The  Child  would  bring  her  four-foot  friend  such 

fare 

As  might  be  gathered  on  the  downward  way  :  — 
Foxglove,  or  broom,  and  "  yellow  cytisus," 
Dear  to  all  goats  since  Greek  Theocritus. 

But,  for  the  Cyclops,  that  misogynist 

Having,  by  stress  of  circumstances,  smiled, 

Felt  it  at  least  incumbent  to  resist 

Further  encroachment,  and  as  one  beguiled 

By  adverse  fortune,  with  the  half-door  shut, 

Dwelt  in  the  dim  seclusion  of  his  hut. 

And  yet  not  less  from  thence  he  still  must  see 
That  daily  coming,  and  must  hear  the  goat 

Bleating  her  welcome  ;  then,  towards  the  sea, 
The  happy  voices  of  the  playmates  float ; 
164 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 

Until,  at  last,  enduring  it  no  more, 

He  took  his  wonted  station  by  the  door. 

Here  was,  of  course,  a  pitiful  surrender  ; 

For  soon  the  Child,  on  whom  the  Evil  Eye 
Seemed  to  exert  an  influence  but  slender, 

Would  run  to  question  him,  till,  by  and  by, 
His  moody  humor  like  a  cloud  dispersing, 
He  found  himself  uneasily  conversing. 

That  was  a  sow's-ear,  that  an  egg  of  skate, 
And  this  an  agate  rounded  by  the  wave. 

Then  came  inquiries  still  more  intimate 
About  himself,  the  anvil,  and  the  cave  ; 

And  then,  at  last,  the  Child,  without  alarm 

Would  even  spell  the  letters  on  his  arm. 

41  G — A — L — Galatea."    So  there  grew 
On  his  part,  like  some  half-remembered  tale, 

The  new-found  memory  of  an  ice-bound  crew, 
And  vague  garrulities  of  spouting  whale,  — 

Of  sea-cow  basking  upon  berg  and  floe. 

And  Polar  light,  and  stunted  Eskimo. 

Till,  in  his  heart,  which  hitherto  had  been 
Locked  as  those  frozen  barriers  of  the  North, 

There  came  once  more  the  season  of  the  green, - 
The  tender  bud-time  and  the  putting  forth, 
'65 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

So  that  the  man,  before  the  new  sensation, 
Felt  for  the  child  a  kind  of  adoration  ;  — 

Rising  by  night,  to  search  for  shell  and  flower, 
To  lay  in  places  where  she  found  them  first ; 

Hoarding  his  cherished  goat's  milk  for  the  hour 
When  those  young  lips  might  feel  the  summer's 
thirst ; 

Holding  himself  for  all  devotion  paid 

By  that  clear  laughter  of  the  little  maid. 

Dwelling,  alas  !  in  that  fond  Paradise 
Where  no  to-morrow  quivers  in  suspense,  — 

Where  scarce  the  changes  of  the  sky  suffice 
To  break  the  soft  forgetfulness  of  sense,  — 

Where  dreams  become  realities  ;  and  where 

I  willingly  would  leave  him  —  did  I  dare. 

Yet  for  a  little  space  it  still  endured, 
Until,  upon  a  day  when  least  of  all 

The  softened  Cyclops,  by  his  hopes  assured, 
Dreamed  the  inevitable  blow  could  fall, 

Came  the  stern  moment  that  should  all  destroy, 

Bringing  a  pert  young  cockerel  of  a  Boy. 

Middy,  I  think,  —  he'd  "Ads"  on  his  box:  — 
A  black-eyed,  sun-burnt,  mischief-making  imp, 
1 66 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 

Pet  of  the  mess,  — a  Puck  with  curling  locks, 

Who  straightway  travestied  the  Cyclops1  limp, 
And  marveled  how  his  cousin  so  could  care 
For  such  a  "one-eyed,  melancholy  Bear." 

Thus  there  was  war  at  once  ;  not  overt  yet, 
For  still  the  Child,  unwilling,  would  not  break 

The  new  acquaintanceship,  nor  quite  forget 
The  pleasant  past  ;    while,   for  his  treasure's 
sake, 

The  boding  smith  with  clumsy  efforts  tried 

To  win  the  laughing  scorner  to  his  side. 

There  are  some  sights  pathetic ;  none  I  know 
More  sad  than  this  :   to  watch  a  slow- wrought 
mind 

Humbling  itself,  for  love,  to  come  and  go 
Before  some  petty  tyrant  of  its  kind  ; 

Saddest,  ah  !  —  saddest  far,  —  when  it  can  do 

Naught  to  advance  the  end  it  has  in  view. 

This  was  at  least  the  Cyclops'  case,  until, 
Whether  the  boy  beguiled  the  Child  away, 

Or  whether  that  limp  Matron  on  the  Hill 

Woke  from  her  novel-reading  trance,  one  day 

He  waited  long  and  wearily  in  vain,  — 

But,  from  that  hour,  they  never  came  again. 
167 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Yet  still  he  waited,  hoping  —  wondering  if 
They  still  might  come,  or  dreaming  that  he  heard 

The  sound  of  far-off  voices  on  the  cliff, 

Or  starting  strangely  when  the  she-goat  stirred  ; 

But  nothing  broke  the  silence  of  the  shore, 

And,  from  that  hour,  the  Child  returned  no  more. 

Therefore  our  Cyclops  sorrowed,  — not  as  one 
Who  can  command  the  gamut  of  despair ; 

But  as  a  man  who  feels  his  days  are  done, 
So  dead  they  seem,  —  so  desolately  bare  ; 

For,  though  he'd  lived  a  hermit,  'twas  but  only 

Now  he  discovered  that  his  life  was  lonely. 

The  very  sea  seemed  altered,  and  the  shore  ; 

The  very  voices  of  the  air  were  dumb  ; 
Time  was  an  emptiness  that  o'er  and  o'er 

Ticked   with    the   dull    pulsation    "  Will    she 

come  ? " 

So  that  he  sat  "  consuming  in  a  dream," 
Much  like  his  old  forerunner,  Polypheme. 

Until  there  came  the  question,  "  Is  she  gone  r " 
With  such  sad  sick  persistence  that  at  last, 

Urged  by  the  hungry  thought  which  drove  him  on, 
Along  the  steep  declivity  he  passed, 
1 68 


A   TALE  OF  POLYPHEME. 

And  by  the  summit  panting  stood,  and  still, 
Just  as  the  horn  was  sounding  on  the  hill. 

Then,  in  a  dream,  beside  the  "  Dragon  "  door, 
The  smith  saw  travellers  standing  in  the  sun  ; 

Then  came  the  horn  again,  and  three  or  four 
Looked  idly  at  him  from  the  roof,  but  One,  — 

A  Child  within,  —  suffused  with  sudden  shame, 

Thrust  forth  a  hand,  and  called  to  him  by  name. 

Thus  the  coach  vanished  from  his  sight,  but  he 
Limped  back  with  bitter  pleasure  in  his  pain  ; 

He  was  not  all  forgotten  —  could  it  be  ? 
And  yet  the  knowledge  made  the  memory  vain  ; 

And  then —  he  felt  a  pressure  in  his  throat, 

So,  for  that  night,  forgot  to  milk  his  goat. 

What  then  might  come  of  silent  misery, 
What  new  resolvings  then  might  intervene, 

I  know  not.     Only,  with  the  morning  sky, 
The  goat  stood  tethered   on   the  "Dragon" 
green, 

And  those  who,  wondering,  questioned  thereupon, 

Found  the  hut  empty,  —  for  the  man  was  gone. 


169 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 


A   STORY    FROM    A    DICTIONARY. 

"Sicvisum  Veneri:  cni  placet  imparts 
Formas  atque  animos  subjuga  aenea 
Sacvo  mitiere  cum  joe o." 

—  HOR.  i.  33. 

"  T    OVE  mocks  us  all" — as  Horace  said  of  old  : 
From  sheer  perversity,  that  arch-offender 
Still  yokes  unequally  the  hot  and  cold, 

The  short  and  tall,  the  hardened  and  the  tender  ; 
He  bids  a  Socrates  espouse  a  scold, 

And  makes  a  Hercules  forget  his  gender  :  — 
Sic  visum  Veneri!     Lest  samples  fail, 
I  add  a  fresh  one  from  the  page  of  BAYLE. 


It  was  in  Athens  that  the  thing  occurred, 
In  the  last  days  of  Alexander's  rule, 

While  yet  in  Grove  or  Portico  was  heard 
The  studious  murmur  of  its  learned  school 

Nay,  'tis  one  favoured  of  Minerva's  bird 
Who  plays  therein  the  hero  (or  the  fool) 

With  a  Megarian,  who  must  then  have  been 

A  maid,  and  beautiful,  and  just  eighteen. 
170 


A  STORY  FROM  A  DICTIONARY. 

I  shan't  describe  her.     Beauty  is  the  same 

In  Anno  Domini  as  erst  B.C.  ; 
The  type  is  still  that  witching  One  who  came, 

Between  the  furrows,  from  the  bitter  sea ; 
'Tis  but  to  shift  accessories  and  frame, 

And  this  our  heroine  in  a  trice  would  be, 
Save  that  she  wore  a  peplum  and  a  chiton, 
Like  any  modern  on  the  beach  at  Brighton. 


Stay,  I  forget  !     Of  course  the  sequel  shows 
She  had  some  qualities  of  disposition, 

To  which,  in  general,  her  sex  are  foes,  — 
As  strange  proclivities  to  erudition, 

And  lore  unfeminine,  reserved  for  those 

Who  now-a-days  descant  on  "  Woman's  Mis- 
sion," 

Or  tread  instead  that  "  primrose  path  "  to  know- 
ledge, 

That  milder  Academe  —  the  Girton  College. 

The  truth  is,  she  admired  ....  a  learned  man. 

There  were  no  curates  in  that  sunny  Greece, 
For  whom  the  mind  emotional  could  plan 

Fine-art  habiliments  in  gold  and  fleece  ; 
(This  was  ere  chasuble  or  cope  began 

To  shake  the  centres  of  domestic  peace  ;) 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

So  that  "  admiring,"  such  as  maids  give  way  to, 
Turned  to  the  ranks  of  Zeno  and  of  Plato. 

The  "object"  here  was  mildly  prepossessing, 
At  least,  regarded  in  a  woman's  sense  ; 

His  forte,  it  seems,  lay  chiefly  in  expressing 
Disputed  fact  in  Attic  eloquence  ; 

His  ways  were  primitive  ;  and  as  to  dressing, 
His  toilet  was  a  negative  pretence  ; 

He  kept,  besides,  the  regime  of  the  Stoic  ;  — 

In  short,  was  not,  by  any  means,  "  heroic." 

Sic  visum  Veneri !  —  The  thing  is  clear. 

Her  friends  were  furious,  her  lovers  nettled  ; 
'Twas  much  as  though  the  Lady  Vere  de  Vere 

On    some   hedge-schoolmaster   her   heart   had 

settled. 
Unheard  !     Intolerable  !  —  a  lumbering  steer 

To  plod  the  upland  with  a  mare  high-mettled !  — 
They  would,  no  doubt,  with  far  more   pleasure 

hand  her 
To  curled  Euphorion  or  Anaximander. 

And  so  they  used  due  discipline,  of  course, 
To  lead  to  reason  this  most  erring  daughter, 

Proceeding  even  to  extremes  of  force,  — 
Confinement  (solitary),  and  bread  and  water ; 
172 


A  STORY  FROM  A  DICTIONARY. 

Then,  having  lectured  her  till  they  were  hoarse, 

Finding  that  this  to  no  submission  brought  her, 
At  last,  (unwisely1)  to  the  man  they  sent, 
That  he  might  combat  her  by  argument. 

Being,  they  fancied,  but  a  bloodless  thing; 

Or  else  too  well  forewarned  of  that  commotion 
Which  poets  feign  inseparable  from  Spring 

To  suffer  danger  from  a  school-girl  notion  ; 
Also  they  hoped  that  she  might  find  her  king, 

On  close  inspection,  clumsy  and  Boeotian  :  — 
This  was  acute  enough,  and  yet,  between  us, 
I  think  they  thought  too  little  about  Venus. 

Something,  I  know,  of  this  sort  is  related 
In  Garrick's  life.     However,  the  man  came, 

And  taking  first  his  mission's  end  as  stated, 
Began  at  once  her  sentiments  to  tame, 

Working  discreetly  to  the  point  debated 
By  steps  rhetorical  I  spare  to  name  ; 

In  other  words,  —  he  broke  the  matter  gently. 

Meanwhile,  the  lady  looked  at  him  intently, 

Wistfully,  sadly,  — and  it  put  him  out. 
Although  he  went  on  steadily,  but  faster. 

1  "  Unwisely,"  surely.     But  'tis  well  to  mention 
That  this  particular  is  not  invention. 
173 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

There  were  some  maladies  he'd  read  about 
Which  seemed,  at  first,  most  difficult  to  master; 

They  looked  intractable  at  times,  no  doubt, 
But  all  they  needed  was  a  little  plaster ; 

This  was  a  thing  physicians  long  had  pondered, 

Considered,  weighed  ....  and  then  ....  and 
then  he  wandered. 

('Tis  so  embarrassing  to  have  before  you 

A  silent  auditor,  with  candid  eyes  ; 
With  lips  that  speak  no  sentence  to  restore  you, 

And  aspect,  generally,  of  pained  surprise  ; 
Then,  if  we  add  that  all  these  things  adore  you. 

'Tis  really  difficult  to  syllogise  :  — 
Of  course  it  mattered  not  to  him  a  feather, 
But  still   he   wished  ....  they'd  not    been   left 
together.) 

"  Of  one,"  he  said,  continuing,  "  of  these 
The  young  especially  should  be  suspicious  ; 

Seeing  no  ailment  in  Hippocrates 

Could  be  at  once  so  tedious  and  capricious ; 

No  seeming  apple  of  Hesperides 

More  fatal,  deadlier,  and  more  delicious  — 

Pernicious, — he  should  say, — for  all  its  seem- 
ing .  ." 

It  seemed  to  him  he  simply  was  blaspheming. 
174 


A  STORY  FROM  A  DICTIONARY. 

If  she  had  only  turned  askance,  or  uttered 
Word  in  reply,  or  trifled  with  her  brooch, 

Or  sighed,  or  cried,  grown  petulant,  or  fluttered, 
He   might    (in    metaphor)    have    "  called    his 
coach  "  ; 

Yet  still,  while  patiently  he  hemmed  and  stuttered, 
She  wore  her  look  of  wondering  reproach  ; 

(And  those  who  read  the  "  Shakespeare  of  Ro- 
mances" 

Know  of  what  stuff  a  girl's  "dynamic  glance  "  is.) 

"  But  there  was  still  a  cure,  the  wise  insisted, 
In  Love,  —  or  rather,  in  Philosophy. 

Philosophy  —  no,  Love  —  at  best  existed 
But  as  an  ill  for  that  to  remedy  : 

There  was  no  knot  so  intricately  twisted, 
There  was  no  riddle  but  at  last  should  be 

By  Love  —  he  meant  Philosophy  —  resolved  .  .  .'' 

The  truth  is,  he  was  getting  quite  involved. 


O  sovran  Love  !  how  far  thy  power  surpasses 
Aught  that  is  taught  of  Logic  or  the  Schools  ! 

Here  was  a  man,  "  far  seen  "  in  all  the  classes, 
Strengthened  of  precept,  fortified  of  rules, 

Mute  as  the  least  articulate  of  asses  ; 

Nay,  at  an  age  when  every  passion  cools, 
175 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Conscious  of  nothing  but  a  sudden  yearning 
Stronger  by  far  than  any  force  of  learning  ! 

Therefore  he  changed  his  tone,  flung  down  his 
wallet, 

Described  his  lot,  how  pitiable  and  poor ; 
The  hut  of  mud,  —  the  miserable  pallet,  — 

The  alms  solicited  from  door  to  door ; 
The  scanty  fare  of  bitter  bread  and  sallet, — 

Could  she  this  shame,  —  this  poverty  endure? 
I  scarcely  think  he  knew  what  he  was  doing, 
But  that  last  line  had  quite  a  touch  of  wooing. 

And  so  she  answered  him,  —  those  early  Greeks 
Took  little  care  to  keep  concealment  preying 

At  any  length  upon  their  damask  cheeks, — 
She  answered  him  by  very  simply  saying, 

She  could  and  would  :  —  and  said  it  as  one  speaks 
Who  takes    no  course   without   much   careful 
weighing.  .  .  . 

Was  this,  perchance,  the  answer  that  he  hoped  ? 

It  might,  or  might  not  be.     But  they  eloped. 

Sought  the  free  pine-wood  and  the  larger  air, — 
The  leafy  sanctuaries,  remote  and  inner, 

Where  the  great  heart  of  nature,  beating  bare, 
Receives  benignantly  both  saint  and  sinner  ;  — 
176 


A  STORY  FROM  A  DICTIONARY. 

Leaving  propriety  to  gasp  and  stare, 

And  shake  its  head,  like  Burleigh,  after  dinner, 
From  pure  incompetence  to  mar  or  mend  them  : 
They  fled  and  wed ;  —  though,    mind,    I    don't 
defend  them. 

I  don't  defend  them.     'Twas  a  serious  act, 
No  doubt  too  much  determined  by  the  senses  ; 

(Alas  !  when  these  affinities  attract, 
We  lose  the  future  in  the  present  tenses  !) 

Besides,  the  least  establishment's  a  fact 
Involving  nice  adjustment  of  expenses  ; 

Moreover,  too,  reflection  should  reveal 

That  not  remote  contingent  —  lafamille. 

Yet  these,  maybe,  were  happy  in  their  lot. 

Milton  has  said  (and  surely  Milton  knows) 
That  after  all,  philosophy  is  "  not,  — 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose  ;  " 
And  some,  no  doubt,  for  Love's  sake  have  forgot 

Much  that  is  needful  in  this  world  of  prose  :  — 
Perchance  'twas  so  with  these.  But  who  shall  say  r 
Time  has  long  since  swept  them  and  theirs  away. 


VOL.  II. —  12 


177 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 


THE    WATER-CURE. 

A    TALE  :    IN    THE    MANNER   OF    PRIOR. 

"  — portentaque  Thessala  rides  ?  " 
—  HOR. 

"  —  Thessalian  f  orients  do  you  flout  ?  " 
*  * 

/"^ARDEN ID'S  fortunes  ne'er  miscarried 

Until  the  day  CARDENIO  married. 
What  then  ?  the  Nymph  no  doubt  was  young  ? 
She  was  :  but  yet  —  she  had  a  tongue  ! 
Most  women  have,  you  seem  to  say. 
I  grant  it —  in  a  different  way. 

'Twas  not  that  organ  half-divine, 
With  which,  Dear  Friend,  your  spouse  or  mine, 
What  time  we  seek  our  nightly  pillows, 
Rebukes  our  easy  peccadilloes  : 
'Twas  not  so  tuneful,  so  composing ; 
Twas  louder  and  less  often  dozing  ; 
At  Ombre,  Basset,  Loo,  Quadrille, 
You  heard  it  resonant  and  shrill ; 
You  heard  it  rising,  rising  yet 
Beyond  SELINDA'S  parroquet ; 
178 


THE  WATER-CURE. 

You  heard  it  rival  and  outdo 
The  chair-men  and  the  link-boy  too  ; 
In  short,  wherever  lungs  perform, 
Like  MARYBOROUGH,  it  rode  the  storm. 

So  uncontrolled  it  came  to  be, 
CARDENIO  feared  his  ch&re  amie 
(Like  ECHO  by  Cephissus  shore) 
Would  turn  to  voice  and  nothing  more. 

That  ('tis  conceded)  must  be  cured 
Which  can't  by  practice  be  endured. 
CARDENIO,  though  he  loved  the  maid, 
Grew  daily  more  and  more  afraid  ; 
And  since  advice  could  not  prevail 
(Reproof  but  seemed  to  fan  the  gale), 
A  prudent  man,  he  cast  about 
To  find  some  fitting  nostrum  out. 
What  need  to  say  that  priceless  drug 
Had  not  in  any  mine  been  dug  ? 
What  need  to  say  no  skilful  leech 
Could  check  that  plethora  of  speech? 
Suffice  it,  that  one  lucky  day 
CARDENIO  tried  —  another  way. 

A  Hermit  (there  were  hermits  then  ; 

The  most  accessible  of  men  !) 
179 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Near  VauxhaWs  sacred  shade  resided; 
In  him,  at  length,  our  friend  confided. 
(Simples,  for  show,  he  used  to  sell  ; 
But  cast  Nativities  as  well.) 
Consulted,  he  looked  wondrous  wise  ; 
Then  undertook  the  enterprise. 


What  that  might  be,  the  Muse  must  spare 
To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  not  there. 
She  scorns  to  patch  what  she  ignores 
With  Similes  and  Metaphors  ; 
And  so,  in  short,  to  change  the  scene, 
She  slips  a  fortnight  in  between. 


Behold  our  pair  then  (quite  by  chance  !) 
In  VauxhaWs  garden  of  romance,  — 
That  paradise  of  nymphs  and  grottoes, 
Of  fans,  and  fiddles,  and  ridottoes  ! 
What  wonder  if,  the  lamps  reviewed, 
The  song  encored,  the  maze  pursued, 
No  further  feat  could  seem  more  pat 
Than  seek  the  Hermit  after  that  ? 
Who  then  more  keen  her  fate  to  see 
Than  this,  the  new  LEUCONOE, 
On  fire  to  learn  the  lore  forbidden 
In  Babylonian  numbers  hidden  ? 
180 


THE  WATER-CURE. 

Forthwith  they  took  the  darkling  road 
To  ALBUMAZAR  his  abode. 

Arriving,  they  beheld  the  sage 
Intent  on  hieroglyphic  page, 
In  high  Armenian  cap  arrayed 
And  girt  with  engines  of  his  trade  ; 
(As  Skeletons,  and  Spheres,  and  Cubes; 
As  Amulets  and  Optic  Tubes  ;) 
With  dusky  depths  behind  revealing 
Strange  shapes  that  dangled  from  the  ceiling  ; 
While  more  to  palsy  the  beholder 
A  Black  Cat  sat  upon  his  shoulder. 

The  Hermit  eyed  the  Lady  o'er 
As  one  whose  face  he'd  seen  before  ; 
And  then,  with  agitated  looks, 
He  fell  to  fumbling  at  his  books. 

CARDENIO  felt  his  spouse  was  frightened, 
Her  grasp  upon  his  arm  had  tightened  ; 
Judge  then  her  horror  and  her  dread 
When  "  Vox  Stellarum  "  shook  his  head  ; 
Then  darkly  spake  in  phrase  forlorn 
Of  Taurus  and  of  Capricorn  ; 
Of  stars  averse,  and  stars  ascendant, 
And  stars  entirely  independent ; 
181 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

In  fact,  it  seemed  that  all  the  Heavens 
Were  set  at  sixes  and  at  sevens, 
Portending,  in  her  case,  some  fate 
Too  fearful  to  prognosticate. 

Meanwhile  the  Dame  was  well-nigh  dead. 
"  But  is  there  naught,"  CARDENIO  said, 
"  No  sign  or  token,  Sage,  to  show 
From  whence,  or  what,  this  dismal  woe  ?" 

The  Sage,  with  circle  and  with  plane, 
Betook  him  to  his  charts  again. 
"  It  vaguely  seems  to  threaten  Speech  : 
No  more  (he  said)  the  signs  can  teach." 

But  still  CARDENIO  tried  once  more  : 
"  Is  there  no  potion  in  your  store, 
No  charm  by  Chaldee  mage  concerted 
By  which  this  doom  can  be  averted  ? " 

The  Sage,  with  motion  doubly  mystic, 
Resumed  his  juggling  cabalistic. 
The  aspects  here  again  were  various  ; 
But  seemed  to  indicate  Aquarius. 
Thereat  portentously  he  frowned  ; 
Then  frowned  again,  then  smiled ; — 'twas  found ! 
182 


THE  WATER-CURE. 

But  'twas  too  simple  to  be  tried. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  "  at  once  they  cried. 

"  Whene'er  by  chance  you  feel  incited 
To  speak  at  length,  or  uninvited  ; 
Whene'er  you  feel  your  tones  grow  shrill 
(At  times,  we  know,  the  softest  will !), 
This  word  oracular,  my  daughter, 
Bids  you  to  fill  your  mouth  with  water : 
Further,  to  hold  it  firm  and  fast, 
Until  the  danger  be  o'erpast." 

The  Dame,  by  this  in  part  relieved 
The  prospect  of  escape  perceived, 
Rebelled  a  little  at  the  diet. 
CARDENIO  said  discreetly,  "Try  it, 
Try  it,  my  Own.     You  have  no  choice, 
What  if  you  lose  your  charming  voice  1 " 
She  tried,  it  seems.     And  whether  then 
Some  god  stepped  in,  benign  to  men  ; 
Or  Modesty,  too  long  outlawed, 
Contrived  to  aid  the  pious  fraud, 
I  know  not  :  —  but  from  that  same  day 
She  talked  in  quite  a  different  way. 


183 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 


THE    NOBLE   PATRON. 

"  Ce  sont  les  amours 
Que  font  les  beaux  jours" 

"\1  7 HAT  is  a  Patron  1    JOHNSON  knew, 

And  well  that  lifelike  portrait  drew. 
He  is  a  Patron  who  looks  down 
With  careless  eye  on  men  who  drown  ; 
But  if  they  chance  to  reach  the  land, 
Encumbers  them  with  helping  hand. 
Ah  1  happy  we  whose  artless  rhyme 
No  longer  now  must  creep  to  climb  1 
Ah  I  happy  we  of  later  days, 
Who  'scape  those  Caudine  Forks  of  praise  ! 
Whose  votive  page  may  dare  commend 
A  Brother,  or  a  private  Friend  I 
Not  so  it  fared  with  scribbling  man, 
As  POPE  says,  "  under  my  Queen  ANNE." 

DICK  DOVECOT  (this  was  long,  be  sure, 
Ere  he  attained  his  Wiltshire  cure, 
And  settled  down,  like  humbler  folks, 
To  cowslip  wine  and  country  jokes) 
Once  hoped  —  as  who  will  not  ?  —  for  fame, 

And  dreamed  of  honours  and  a  Name. 
184 


THE  NOBLE  PATRON. 

A  fresh-cheek'd  lad,  he  came  to  Town 
In  homespun  hose  and  russet  brown, 
But  armed  at  point  with  every  view 
Enforced  in  RAPIN  and  Bossu. 
Besides  a  stout  portfolio  ripe 
For  LINTOT'S  or  for  TONSON'S  type. 
He  went  the  rounds,  saw  all  the  sights, 
Dropped  in  at  Wilis  and  Tom's  o'  nights  ; 
Heard  BURNET  preach,  saw  BICKNELL  dance, 
E'en  gained  from  ADDISON  a  glance  ; 
Nay.  once,  to  make  his  bliss  complete, 
He  supp'd  with  STEELE  in  Bury  Street. 
(Tis  true  the  feast  was  half  by  stealth  : 
PRUE  was  in  bed  :  they  drank  her  health.) 

By  this  his  purse  was  running  low, 
And  he  must  either  print  or  go. 
He  went  to  TONSON.     TONSON  said  — 
Well !     TONSON  hummed  and  siook  his  head  ; 
Deplor'd  the  times  ;  abus'd  the  Town  ; 
But  thought  —  at  length  —  it  might  go  down  ; 
With  aid,  of  course,  of  Elzevir, 
And  Prologue  to  a  Prince,  or  Peer. 
Dick  winced  at  this,  for  adulation 
Was  scarce  that  candid  youth's  vocation  : 
Nor  did  he  deem  his  rustic  lays 
Required  a  Coronet  for  Bays. 
'85 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

But  there  —  the  choice  was  that,  or  none. 
The  Lord  was  found  ;  the  thing  was  done. 
With  HORACE  and  with  TOOKE'S  Pantheon, 
He  penn'd  his  tributary  paean  ; 
Despatched  his  gift,  nor  waited  long 
The  meed  of  his  ingenuous  song. 

Ere  two  days  pass'd,  a  hackney  chair 
Brought  a  pert  spark  with  languid  air, 
A  lace  cravat  about  his  throat,  — 
Brocaded  gown,  —  en  paplllotes. 
("My  Lord  himself,"  quoth  DICK,  "at  least 
But  no,  'twas  that  "  inferior  priest," 
His  Lordship's  man.)     He  held  a  card  : 
My  Lord  (it  said)  would  see  the  Bard. 

The  day  arrived  ;  DICK  went,  was  shown 
Into  an  anteroom,  alone  — 
A  great  gilt  room  with  mirrored  door, 
Festoons  of  flowers  and  marble  floor, 
Whose  lavish  splendours  made  him  look 
More  shabby  than  a  sheepskin  book. 
(His  own  book  —  by  the  way  — he  spied 
On  a  far  table,  toss'd  aside.) 

DICK  waited,  as  they  only  wait 
Who  haunt  the  chambers  of  the  Great. 
186 


THE  NOBLE  PATRON. 

He  heard  the  chairmen  come  and  go  ; 
He  heard  the  Porter  yawn  below ; 
Beyond  him,  in  the  Grand  Saloon, 
He  heard  the  silver  stroke  of  noon, 
And  thought  how  at  this  very  time 
The  old  church  clock  at  home  would  chime. 
Dear  heart,  how  plain  he  saw  it  all ! 
The  lich-gate  and  the  crumbling  wall, 
The  stream,  the  pathway  to  the  wood, 
The  bridge  where  they  so  oft  had  stood. 
Then,  in  a  trice,  both  church  and  clock 
Vanish'd  before  .     .  a  shuttlecock. 


A  shuttlecock  !     And  following  slow 

The  zigzag  of  its  to-and-fro, 

And  so  intent  upon  its  flight 

She  neither  look'd  to  left  nor  right, 

Came  a  tall  girl  with  floating  hair, 

Light  as  a  wood-nymph,  and  as  fair. 


O  Dea  czrl&!  —  thought  poor  DICK, 
And  thereupon  his  memories  quick 
Ran  back  to  her  who  flung  the  ball 
In  HOMER'S  page,  and  next  to  all 
The  dancing  maids  that  bards  have  sung 
Lastly  to  One  at  home,  as  young, 
187 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

As  fresh,  as  light  of  foot,  and  glad, 
Who,  when  he  went,  had  seem'd  so  sad. 
O  Dea  certt !    (Still,  he  stirred 
Nor  hand  nor  foot,  nor  uttered  word.) 

Meanwhile  the  shuttlecock  in  air 
Went  darting  gaily  here  and  there  ; 
Now  crossed  a  mirror's  face,  and  next 
Shot  up  amidst  the  sprawl'd,  perplex'd 
Olympus  overhead.     At  last, 
Jerk'd  sidelong  by  a  random  cast, 
The  striker  miss'd  it,  and  it  fell 
Full  on  the  book  DICK  knew  so  well. 


(If  he  had  thought  to  speak  or  bow, 
Judge  if  he  moved  a  muscle  now  !) 


The  player  paused,  bent  down  to  look, 
Lifted  a  cover  of  the  book ; 
Pished  at  the  Prologue,  passed  it  o'er, 
Went  forward  for  a  page  or  more 
(Asem  and  Asa  :  DICK  could  trace 
Almost  the  passage  and  the  place) ; 
Then  for  a  moment  with  bent  head 
Rested  upon  her  hand  and  read. 
1 88 


THE  NOBLE  PATRON. 

(DiCK  thought  once  more  how  cousin  Cis 
Used  when  she  read  to  lean  like  this  ;  — 
"  Used  when  she  read"  —  why,  Cis  could  say 
All  he  had  written,  —  any  day  1) 

Sudden  was  heard  a  hurrying  tread  ; 

The  great  doors  creaked.     The  reader  fled. 

Forth  came  a  crowd  with  muffled  laughter, 

A  waft  of  Bergamot,  and  after, 

His  Chaplain  smirking  at  his  side, 

My  Lord  himself  in  all  his  pride  — 

A  portly  shape  in  stars  and  lace, 

With  wine-bag  cheeks  and  vacant  face. 

DICK   bowed   and   smiled.     The  Great    Man 

stared, 

With  look  half  puzzled  and  half  scared  ; 
Then  seemed  to  recollect,  turned  round, 
And  mumbled  some  imperfect  sound  : 
A  moment  more,  his  coach  of  state 
Dipped  on  its  springs  beneath  his  weight ; 
And  DICK,  who  followed  at  his  heels, 
Heard  but  the  din  of  rolling  wheels. 

Away,  too,  all  his  dreams  had  rolled  ; 
And  yet  they  left  him  half  consoled  : 
189 


TALES  IN  RHYME. 

Fame,  after  all,  he  thought  might  wait. 
Would  Cis  ?    Suppose  he  were  too  late  I 
Ten  months  he'd  lost  in  Town  —  an  age  ! 

Next  day  he  took  the  Wiltshire  Stage. 


190 


VERS   DE   SOCIETE. 


191 


INCOGNITA. 

JUST  for  a  space  that  I  met  her  — 
Just  for  a  day  in  the  train  ! 
It  began  when  she  feared  it  would  wet  her, 

That  tiniest  spurtle  of  rain  : 
So  we  tucked  a  great  rug  in  the  sashes, 

And  carefully  padded  the  pane  ; 
And  I  sorrow  in  sackcloth  and  ashes, 
Longing  to  do  it  again  1 

Then  it  grew  when  she  begged  me  to  reach  her 

A  dressing-case  under  the  seat ; 
She  was  "  really  so  tiny  a  creature, 

That  she  needed  a  stool  for  her  feet !  " 
Which  was  promptly  arranged  to  her  order 

With  a  care  that  was  even  minute, 
And  a  glimpse  —  of  an  open-work  border, 

And  a  glance  —  of  the  fairyest  boot. 

Then  it  drooped,  and  revived  at  some  hovels  — 
"  Were  they  houses  for  men  or  for  pigs  ? " 

Then  it  shifted  to  muscular  novels, 
With  a  little  digression  on  prigs : 
VOL.  ii.— 13  193 


VERB  DE  SOCIETE. 

She  thought  "  Wives  and  Daughters  "  "so  jolly  ;  " 
"  Had  I  read  it?"     She  knew  when  I  had, 

Like  the  rest,  I  should  dote  upon  "  Molly  ;  " 
And  "  poor  Mrs.  Gaskell  —  how  sad  1 " 

"  Like  Browning?"    "  But  so-so."  His  proof  lay 

Too  deep  for  her  frivolous  mood, 
That  preferred  your  mere  metrical  souffld 

To  the  stronger  poetical  food  ; 
Yet  at  times  he  was  good  —  "  as  a  tonic  :  " 

Was  Tennyson  writing  just  now  ? 
And  was  this  new  poet  Byronic, 

And  clever,  and  naughty,  or  how  ? 

Then  we  trifled  with  concerts  and  croquSt, 

Then  she  daintily  dusted  her  face  ; 
Then  she  sprinkled  herself  with  "  Ess  Bouquet," 

Fished  out  from  the  foregoing  case  ; 
And  we  chattered  of  Gassier  and  Grisi, 

And  voted  Aunt  Sally  a  bore  ; 
Discussed  if  the  tight  rope  were  easy, 

Or  Chopin  much  harder  than  Spohr. 

And  oh  !  the  odd  things  that  she  quoted, 

With  the  prettiest  possible  look, 
And  the  price  of  two  buns  that  she  noted 

In  the  prettiest  possible  book  ; 
194 


INCOGNITA. 

While  her  talk  like  a  musical  rillet 
Flashed  on  with  the  hours  that  flew, 

And  the  carriage,  her  smile  seemed  to  fill  it 
With  just  enough  summer —  for  Two. 

Till  at  last  in  her  corner,  peeping 

From  a  nest  of  rugs  and  of  furs, 
With  the  white  shut  eyelids  sleeping 

On  those  dangerous  looks  of  hers, 
She  seemed  like  a  snow-drop  breaking, 

Not  wholly  alive  nor  dead, 
But  with  one  blind  impulse  making 

To  the  sounds  of  the  spring  overhead  ; 

And  1  watched  in  the  lamplight's  swerving 

The  shade  of  the  down-dropt  lid, 
And  the  lip-line's  delicate  curving, 

Where  a  slumbering  smile  lay  hid, 
Till  I  longed  that,  rather  than  sever, 

The  train  should  shriek  into  space, 
And  carry  us  onward  —  for  ever,  — 

Me  and  that  beautiful  face. 

But  she  suddenly  woke  in  a  fidget, 
With  fears  she  was  "  nearly  at  home," 

And  talk  of  a  certain  Aunt  Bridget, 
Whom  I  mentally  wished — well,  at  Rome; 


VERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

Got  out  at  the  very  next  station, 

Looking  back  with  a  merry  Bon  Soir, 

Adding,  too,  to  my  utter  vexation, 
A  surplus,  unkind  Au  Revoir, 

So  left  me  to  muse  on  her  graces, 

To  dose  and  to  muse,  till  I  dreamed 
That  we  sailed  through  the  sunniest  places 

In  a  glorified  galley,  it  seemed  ; 
But  the  cabin  was  made  of  a  carriage, 

And  the  ocean  was  Eau-de-Cologne, 
And  we  split  on  a  rock  labelled  MARRIAGE, 

And  I  woke,  — as  cold  as  a  stone. 

And  that's  how  I  lost  her —  a  jewel, 

Incognita  —  one  in  a  crowd, 
Nor  prudent  enough  to  be  cruel, 

Nor  worldly  enough  to  be  proud. 
It  was  just  a  shut  lid  and  its  lashes, 

Just  a  few  hours  in  a  train, 
And  I  sorrow  in  sackcloth  and  ashes 

Longing  to  see  her  again. 


196 


DORA   VERSUS  ROSE. 


DORA    VERSUS   ROSE. 

"  The  Case  is  proceeding" 

T^ROM  the  tragic-est  novels  at  Mudie's 

At  least,  on  a  practical  plan  — 
To  the  tales  of  mere  Hodges  and  Judys, 

One  love  is  enough  for  a  man. 
But  no  case  that  I  ever  yet  met  is 

Like  mine  :   I  am  equally  fond 
Of  Rose,  who  a  charming  brunette  is, 

And  Dora,  a  blonde. 


Each  rivals  the  other  in  powers  — 

Each  waltzes,  each  warbles,  each  paints  — 

Miss  Rose,  chiefly  tumble-down  towers  ; 
Miss  Do.,  perpendicular  saints. 

In  short,  to  distinguish  is  folly ; 
'Twixt  the  pair  I  am  come  to  the  pass 

Of  Macheath,  between  Lucy  and  Polly, — 
Or  Buridan's  ass. 


If  it  happens  that  Rosa  I've  singled 
For  a  soft  celebration  in  rhyme, 
197 


VERB  DE  SOCIETE. 

Then  the  ringlets  of  Dora  get  mingled 
Somehow  with  the  tune  and  the  time  ; 

Or  I  painfully  pen  me  a  sonnet 
To  an  eyebrow  intended  for  Do.'s, 

And  behold  I  am  writing  upon  it 

The  legend  "  To  Rose." 

Or  I  try  to  draw  Dora  (my  blotter 
Is  all  overscrawled  with  her  head), 

If  I  fancy  at  last  that  I've  got  her, 
It  turns  to  her  rival  instead  ; 

Or  I  find  myself  placidly  adding 
To  the  rapturous  tresses  of  Rose 

Miss  Dora's  bud-mouth,  and  her  madding, 
Ineffable  nose. 

Was  there  ever  so  sad  a  dilemma  ? 

For  Rose  I  would  perish  (pro  tern.) ; 
For  Dora  I'd  willingly  stem  a  — 

(Whatever  might  offer  to  stem)  ; 
But  to  make  the  invidious  election,  — 

To  declare  that  on  either  one's  side 
I've  a  scruple,  —  a  grain,  more  affection, 
I  cannot  decide. 

And,  as  either  so  hopelessly  nice  is, 
My  sole  and  my  final  resource 
198 


DORA   VERSUS  ROSE. 

Is  to  wait  some  indefinite  crisis,  — 

Some  feat  of  molecular  force, 
To  solve  me  this  riddle  conducive 

By  no  means  to  peace  or  repose, 
Since  the  issue  can  scarce  be  inclusive 
Of  Dora  and  Rose. 

(Afterthought.) 
But,  perhaps,  if  a  third  (say  a  Norah), 

Not  quite  so  delightful  as  Rose,  — 
Not  wholly  so  charming  as  Dora,  — 

Should  appear,  is  it  wrong  to  suppose,  — 
As  the  claims  of  the  others  are  equal,  - 

And  flight  —  in  the  main  —  is  the  best,  — 
That  I  might  .  .  .  But  no  matter,  —  the  sequel 
Is  easily  guessed. 


199 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 


AD    ROSAM. 

"  Mitte  sectari  ROSA  quo  locorum 
Sera  moretur." 

—  HOR.  I.  38. 

T   HAD  a  vacant  dwelling  — 

Where  situated,  I, 
As  naught  can  serve  the  telling, 

Decline  to  specify  ;  — 
Enough  'twas  neither  haunted, 

Entailed,  nor  out  of  date  ; 
I  put  up  "  Tenant  Wanted," 

And  left  the  rest  to  Fate. 


Then,  Rose,  you  passed  the  window, 

I  see  you  passing  yet,  — 
Ah,  what  could  I  within  do, 

When,  Rose,  our  glances  met  ! 
You  snared  me,  Rose,  with  ribbons, 

Your  rose-mouth  made  me  thrall, 
Brief — briefer  far  than  Gibbon's, 

Was  my  "  Decline  and  Fall." 


200 


AD  ROSAM. 

I  heard  the  summons  spoken 

That  all  hear  —  king  and  clown  : 
You  smiled  —  the  ice  was  broken  ; 

You  stopped  —  the  bill  was  down. 
How  blind  we  are  !     It  never 

Occurred  to  me  to  seek 
If  you  had  come  for  ever, 

Or  only  for  a  week. 


The  words  your  voice  neglected, 

Seemed  written  in  your  eyes  ; 
The  thought  your  heart  protected, 

Your  cheek  told,  missal-wise  ;  — 
I  read  the  rubric  plainly 

As  any  Expert  could  ; 
In  short,  we  dreamed,  — insanely, 

As  only  lovers  should. 


I  broke  the  tall  CEnone, 

That  then  my  chambers  graced, 
Because  she  seemed  "  too  bony," 

To  suit  your  purist  taste  ; 
And  you,  without  vexation, 

May  certainly  confess 
Some  graceful  approbation, 

Designed  d  man  adresse. 

2OI 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

You  liked  me  then,  carina,  — 

You  liked  me  then,  I  think  ; 
For  your  sake  gall  had  been  a 

Mere  tonic-cup  to  drink  ; 
For  your  sake,  bonds  were  trivial, 

The  rack,  a  tour-de-force; 
And  banishment,  convivial, — 

You  coming  too,  of  course. 


Then,  Rose,  a  word  in  jest  meant 

Would  throw  you  in  a  state 
That  no  well-timed  investment 

Could  quite  alleviate  ; 
Beyond  a  Paris  trousseau 

You  prized  my  smile,  I  know, 
I,  yours  —  ah,  more  than  Rousseau 

The  lip  of  d'Houdetot. 


Then,  Rose,  —  But  why  pursue  it  ? 

When  Fate  begins  to  frown 
Best  write  the  final  "fait," 

And  gulp  the  physic  down. 
And  yet,  —  and  yet,  that  only, 

The  song  should  end  with  this  :  — 
You  left  me,  —  left  me  lonely, 

Rosa  mutabilis  / 

202 


AD  ROSAM. 

Left  me,  with  Time  for  Mentor, 

(A  dreary  Ute-A-ttte  /) 
To  pen  my  "  Last  Lament,"  or 

Extemporize  to  Fate, 
In  blankest  verse  disclosing 

My  bitterness  of  mind,  — 
Which  is,  I  learn,  composing 

In  cases  of  the  kind. 


No,  Rose.    Though  you  refuse  me, 

Culture  the  pang  prevents  ; 
"  I  am  not  made  "  —  excuse  me  — 

"  Of  so  slight  elements  ;  " 
I  leave  to  common  lovers 

The  hemlock  or  the  hood  ; 
My  rarer  soul  recovers 

In  dreams  of  public  good. 


The  Roses  of  this  nation  — 

Or  so  I  understand 
From  careful  computation  — 

Exceed  the  gross  demand  ; 
And,  therefore,  in  civility 

To  maids  that  can't  be  matched, 
No  man  of  sensibility 

Should  linger  unattached. 
203 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

So,  without  further  fashion  — 

A  modern  Curtius, 
Plunging,  from  pure  compassion, 

To  aid  the  overplus,  — 
I  sit  down,  sad  —  not  daunted, 

And,  in  my  weeds,  begin 
A  new  card  —  "  Tenant  Wanted  ; 

Particulars  within." 


204 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 


OUTWARD    BOUND. 
(HORACE,  in.  7.) 

"  Quid  fas,  Asterie,  quern  tibi  candidi 
Primo  restituent  vere  Favonii  — 
Gygen  ?  " 


Laura,  patience.    Time  and  Spring 
Your  absent  Arthur  back  shall  bring, 
Enriched  with  many  an  Indian  thing 

Once  more  to  woo  you  ; 
Him  neither  wind  nor  wave  can  check, 
Who,  cramped  beneath  the  "Simla's"  deck, 
Still  constant,  though  with  stiffened  neck, 
Makes  verses  to  you. 


Would  it  were  wave  and  wind  alone  ! 
The  terrors  of  the  torrid  zone, 
The  indiscriminate  cyclone, 

A  man  might  parry  ; 
But  only  faith,  or  "  triple  brass," 
Can  help  the  "  outward-bound  "  to  pass 
Safe  through  that  eastward-faring  class 

Who  sail  to  marry. 
205 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

For  him  fond  mothers,  stout  and  fair, 
Ascend  the  tortuous  cabin  stair 
Only  to  hold  around  his  chair 

Insidious  sessions  ; 
For  him  the  eyes  of  daughters  droop 
Across  the  plate  of  handed  soup, 
Suggesting  seats  upon  the  poop, 

And  soft  confessions. 


Nor  are  these  all  his  pains,  nor  most. 
Romancing  captains  cease  to  boast  — 
Loud  majors  leave  their  whist  —  to  roast 

The  youthful  griffin  ; 
All,  all  with  pleased  persistence  show 
His  fate,  —  "remote,  unfriended,  slow,"  — 
His  l< melancholy"  bungalow, — 

His  lonely  tiffin. 

In  vain.     Let  doubts  assail  the  weak  ; 
Unmoved  and  calm  as  "Adam's  Peak/' 
Your  "blameless  Arthur"  hears  them  speak 

Of  woes  that  wait  him  ; 
Naught  can  subdue  his  soul  secure ; 
"  Arthur  will  come  again,"  be  sure, 
Though  matron  shrewd  and  maid  mature 

Conspire  to  mate  him. 
206 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

But,  Laura,  on  your  side,  forbear 
To  greet  with  too  impressed  an  air 
A  certain  youth  with  chestnut  hair,  — 

A  youth  unstable ; 
Albeit  none  more  skilled  can  guide 
The  frail  canoe  on  Thamis  tide, 
Or,  trimmer-footed,  lighter  glide 

Through  "Guards"  or  "Mabel. 


Be  warned  in  time.     Without  a  trace 
Of  acquiescence  on  your  face, 
Hear,  in  the  waltz's  breathing-space, 

His  airy  patter ; 
Avoid  the  confidential  nook  ; 
If,  when  you  sing,  you  find  his  look 
Grow  tender,  close  your  music-book, 

And  end  the  matter. 


207 


VERB  DE  SOC1ETE. 


IN   THE   ROYAL   ACADEMY. 

HUGH  (on  furlough}.  HELEN  (his  cousin). 

HELEN. 
'T'HEY  have  not  come  !     And  ten  is  past, — 

Unless,  by  chance,  my  watch  is  fast ; 
—  Aunt  Mabel  surely  told  us  "  ten." 

HUGH. 

I  doubt  if  she  can  do  it,  then. 
In  fact,  their  train  .... 

HELEN. 

That  is,  — you  knew. 
How  could  you  be  so  treacherous,  Hugh  ? 

HUGH. 

Nay;  —  it  is  scarcely  mine,  the  crime, 
One  can't  account  for  railway-time  ! 
Where  shall  we  sit  ?     Not  here,  I  vote  ;  — 
At  least,  there's  nothing  here  of  note. 
208 


IN   THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

HELEN. 

Then  here  we'll  stay,  please.     Once  for  all, 
I  bar  all  artists,  — great  and  small  I 
From  now  until  we  go  in  June 
I  shall  hear  nothing  but  this  tune  :  — 
Whether  I  like  Long's  "  Vashti,"  or 
Like  Leslie's  "  Naughty  Kitty  "  more  ; 
With  all  that  critics,  right  or  wrong, 
Have  said  of  Leslie  and  of  Long  .... 
No.     If  you  value  my  esteem, 
I  beg  you'll  take  another  theme  ; 
Paint  me  some  pictures,  if  you  will, 
But  spare  me  these,  for  good  and  ill  .... 

HUGH. 

"  Paint  you  some  pictures  !  "    Come,  that's  kind  ! 
You  know  I'm  nearly  colour-blind. 


HELEN. 

Paint  then,  in  words.     You  did  before  ; 
Scenes  at  —  where  was  it  ?     Dustypoor  ? 
You  know  . 


HUGH  (with  an  inspiration). 
I'll  try. 

VOL.   II.  —  14  209 


VERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

HELEN. 

But  mind  they're  pretty 
Not  "  hog  hunts."  .... 

HUGH. 

You  shall  be  Committee, 
And  say  if  they  are  "  out  "  or  "  in." 

HELEN. 
I  shall  reject  them  all.     Begin. 

HUGH. 

Here  is  the  first.     An  antique  Hall 
(Like  Chanticlere)  with  panelled  wall. 
A  boy,  or  rather  lad.     A  girl, 
Laughing  with  all  her  rows  of  pearl 
Before  a  portrait  in  a  ruff. 
He  meanwhile  watches  .... 

HELEN. 

That's  enough, 

It  wants    "verve"    "brio,"    "breadth,"   "de- 
sign," .... 
Besides,  it's  English.     I  decline. 

HUGH. 
This  is  the  next.     Tis  finer  far : 

A  foaming  torrent  (say  Braemar). 
210 


IN   THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 

A  pony,  grazing  by  a  boulder, 
Then  the  same  pair,  a  little  older, 
Left  by  some  lucky  chance  together. 
He  begs  her  for  a  sprig  of  heather  .... 

HELEN. 

—  "  Which  she  accords  with  smile  seraphic." 
I  know  it,  —  it  was  in  the  "Graphic." 
Declined. 

HUGH. 

Once  more,  and  I  forego 
All  hopes  of  hanging,  high  or  low  : 
Behold  the  hero  of  the  scene, 
In  bungalow  and  palankeen  .... 

HELEN. 

What !  —  all  at  once  !     But  that's  absurd  ;  — 
Unless  he's  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird  I 

HUGH. 

Permit  me  —  Tis  a  Panorama, 
In  which  the  person  of  the  drama, 
Mid  orientals  dusk  and  tawny, 
Mid  warriors  drinking  brandy  pawnee, 
Mid  scorpions,  dowagers,  and  griffins, 

211 


DE  SOCIETE. 


In  morning  rides,  at  noon-day  tiffins, 

In  every  kind  of  place  and  weather, 

Is  solaced  ....  by  a  sprig  of  heather. 

(More  seriously.} 
He  puts  that  faded  scrap  before 
The  "  Rajah,"  or  the  "  Koh-i-noor"  .... 
He  would  not  barter  it  for  all 
Benares,  or  the  Taj-Mahal  .  . 
It  guides,  —  directs  his  every  act, 
And  word,  and  thought  —  In  short  —  in  fact  — 
I  mean  .... 

(Opening  his  locket.) 
Look,  Helen,  that's  the  heather  ! 
(Too  late  !    Here  come  both  Aunts  together.) 

HELEN. 
What  heather,  Sir  ? 

(After  a  pause.) 

And  why  .  .  .  .  "  too  late  ?  " 
—  Aunt  Dora,  how  you've  made  us  wait  ! 
Don't  you  agree  that  it's  a  pity 
Portraits  are  hung  by  the  Committee  ? 


THE  LAST  DESPATCH. 


THE    LAST    DESPATCH. 

TJ  URRAH  1  the  Season's  past  at  last ; 

At  length  we've  "  done  "  our  pleasure. 
Dear  "  Pater,"  if  you  only  knew 
How  much  I've  longed  for  home  and  you,  — 
Our  own  green  lawn  and  leisure  1 

And  then  the  pets  !    One  half  forgets 
The  dear  dumb  friends  —  in  Babel. 

I  hope  my  special  fish  is  fed  ;  — 

I  long  to  see  poor  Nigra's  head 
Pushed  at  me  from  the  stable  1 

I  long  to  see  the  cob  and  "  Rob,"  — 

Old  Bevis  and  the  Collie  ; 
And  wont  we  read  in  "  Traveller's  Rest  "  1 
Home  readings  after  all  are  best ;  — 

None  else  seem  half  so  "  jolly  !  " 

One  misses  your  dear  kindly  store 

Of  fancies  quaint  and  funny  ; 
One  misses,  too,  your  kind  bon-mot ;  — 
The  Mayfair  wit  I  mostly  know 

Has  more  of  gall  than  honey  1 
213 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

How  tired  one  grows  of  "  calls  and  balls  ! 

This  "  tou jours  perdrix  "  wearies  ; 
I'm  longing,  quite,  for  "  Notes  on  Knox"; 
(Apropos,  I've  the  loveliest  box 

For  holding  Notes  and  Queries  /) 

A  change  of  place  would  suit  my  case. 

You'll  take  me  ? —  on  probation? 
As  "  Lady-help,"  then,  let  it  be  ; 
I  feel  (as  Lavender  shall  see), 

That  Jams  are  my  vocation  ! 

How's  Lavender  ?     My  love  to  her. 

Does  Briggs  still  flirt  with  Flowers?  — 
Has  Hawthorn  stubbed  the  common  clear?  — 
You'll  let  me  give  some  picnics,  Dear, 

And  ask  the  Vanes  and  Towers  ? 

I  met  Belle  Vane.     "  HE'S  "  still  in  Spain  ! 

Sir  John  won't  let  them  marry. 
Aunt  drove  the  boys  to  Brompton  Rink  ; 
And  Charley,  — changing  Charley,  — think, 

Is  now  au  mieux  with  Carry  ! 

And  NO.     You  know  what  "  No  "  I  mean  — 
There's  no  one  yet  at  present  : 

The  Benedick  I  have  in  view 
214 


THE  LAST  DESPATCH. 

Must  be  a  something  wholly  new, — 
One's  father's  far  too  pleasant. 

So  hey,  I  say,  for  home  and  you  1 

Good-by  to  Piccadilly ; 
Balls,  beaux,  and  Bolton-row,  adieu  1 
Expect  me,  Dear,  at  half-past  two  ; 

Till  then,  —  your  Own  Fond — MILLY. 


215 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 


"PREMIERS    AMOURS." 

Old  Loves  and  old  dreams,  — 

"  Requiescant  in  pace." 
How  strange  now  it  seems,  — 
"  Old "  Loves  and  "old'"  dreams! 
Yet  we  once  wrote  you  reams 

Maude,  Alice,  and  Grade  ! 
Old  Loves  and  old  dreams,  — 

"  Requiescant  in  pace" 

HEN  I  called  at  the  "  Hollies"  to-day, 

In  the  room  with  the  cedar-wood  presses, 
Aunt  Deb.  was  just  folding  away 
What  she  calls  her  "  memorial  dresses." 

She'd  the  frock  that  she  wore  at  fifteen,  — 
Short-waisted,  of  course  —  my  abhorrence  ; 

She'd  "  the  loveliest  "  —  something  in  "  een  " 
That  she  wears  in  her  portrait  by  Lawrence  ; 

She'd  the  "jelick"  she  used  —  "as  a  Greek,"  (!) 
She'd  the  habit  she  got  her  bad  fall  in  ; 

She  had  e'en  the  blue  moird  antique 

That    she   opened    Squire   Grasshopper's   ball 

in :  — 

216 


"PREMIERS  4MOURS." 

New  and  old  they  were  all  of  them  there  :  — 
Sleek  velvet  and  bombazine  stately,  — 

She  had  hung  them  each  over  a  chair 
To  the  "  panicrs  "  she's  taken  to  lately 

(Which  she  showed  me,  I  think,  by  mistake). 

And  I  conned  o'er  the  forms  and  the  fashions, 
Till  the  faded  old  shapes  seemed  to  wake 

All    the    ghosts    of    my    passed-away    "pas- 
sions ; "  — 

From  the  days  of  love's  youthfullest  dream, 
When  the  height  of  my  shooting  idea 

Was  to  burn,  like  a  young  Polypheme, 
For  a  somewhat  mature  Galatea. 

There  was  Lucy,  who  "  tiffed  "  with  her  first, 
And  who  threw  me  as  soon  as  her  third  came ; 

There  was  Norah,  whose  cut  was  the  worst. 
For  she  told  me  to  wait  till  my  "  berd  "  came  ; 

Pale  Blanche,  who  subsisted  on  salts  ; 

Blonde  Bertha,  who  doted  on  Schiller; 
Poor  Amy,  who  taught  me  to  waltz  ; 

Plain  Ann,  that  I  wooed  for  the  "  siller ;  " 

All  danced  round  my  head  in  a  ring, 

Like  "The  Zephyrs"  that  somebody  painted, 
217 


VERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

All  shapes  of  the  feminine  thing  — 
Shy,  scornful,  seductive,  and  sainted,  — 

To  my  Wife,  in  the  days  she  was  young  .  .  . 

"  How,  Sir,"  says  that  lady,  disgusted, 
"  Do  you  dare  to  include  ME  among 

Your  loves  that  have  faded  and  rusted  ? " 

"  Not  at  all  1"  —  I  benignly  retort. 

(I  was  just  the  least  bit  in  a  temper  !) 
"Those,  alas  !  were  the  fugitive  sort, 

But  you  are  my  —  eadem  semper ! " 

Full  stop,  —  and  a  Sermon.     Yet  think,  — 
There  was  surely  good  ground  for  a  quarrel, 

She  had  checked  me  when  just  on  the  brink 
Of —  I  feel  —  a  remarkable  MORAL. 


218 


THE  SCREEN  IN   THE  LUMBER  ROOM. 


THE    SCREEN    IN    THE    LUMBER 
ROOM. 

\/ES,  here  it  is,  behind  the  box, 

That  puzzle  wrought  so  neatly  — 
That  paradise  of  paradox  — 

We  once  knew  so  completely ; 
You  see  it  ?    Tis  the  same,  I  swear, 

Which  stood,  that  chill  September, 
Beside  your  aunt  Lavinia's  chair 

The  year  when  .  .  .  You  remember? 

Look,  Laura,  look  I     You  must  recall 

This  florid  if  Fairy's  Bower," 
This  wonderful  Swiss  waterfall, 

And  this  old  "  Leaning  Tower ;  " 
And  here's  the  "  Maiden  of  Cashmere," 

And  here  is  Bewick's  "  Starling," 
And  here  the  dandy  cuirassier 

You  thought  was  "  such  a  Darling  !  " 

Your  poor  dear  Aunt  !  you  know  her  way, 

She  used  to  say  this  figure 
Reminded  her  of  Count  D'Orsay 

"  In  all  his  youthful  vigour ;  " 
219 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

And  here's  the  "  cot  beside  the  hill " 

We  chose  for  habitation, 
The  day  that  .  .  .  But  I  doubt  if  still 

You'd  like  the  situation  ! 

Too  damp  —  by  far  !     She  little  knew, 

Your  guileless  Aunt  Lavinia, 
Those  evenings  when  she  slumbered  through 

"  The  Prince  of  Abyssinia," 
That  there  were  two  beside  her  chair 

Who  both  had  quite  decided 
To  see  things  in  a  rosier  air 

Than  Rasselas  provided ! 

Ah  1  men  wore  stocks  in  Britain's  land, 

And  maids  short  waists  and  tippets, 
When  this  old-fashioned  screen  was  planned 

From  hoarded  scraps  and  snippets  ; 
But  more  —  far  more,  I  think  —  to  me 

Than  those  who  first  designed  it, 
Is  this  —  in  Eighteen  Seventy-Three 

I  kissed  you  first  behind  it. 


220 


DAISY'S   VALENTINES. 


DAISY'S   VALENTINES. 

A  LL  night  through  Daisy's  sleep,  it  seems, 
Have  ceaseless  "  rat-tats  "  thundered  ; 
All  night  through  Daisy's  rosy  dreams 
Have  devious  Postmen  blundered, 
Delivering  letters  round  her  bed,  — 
Mysterious  missives,  sealed  with  red, 
And  franked  of  course  with  due  Queen's-head,' 
While  Daisy  lay  and  wondered. 

But  now,  when  chirping  birds  begin, 
And  Day  puts  off  the  Quaker, — 

When  Cook  renews  her  morning  din, 
And  rates  the  cheerful  baker,  — 

She  dreams  her  dream  no  dream  at  all, 

For,  just  as  pigeons  come  a;  call, 

Winged  letters  flutter  down,  and  fall 
Around  her  head,  and  wake  her. 

Yes,  there  they  are  !     With  quirk  and  twist, 

And  fraudful  arts  directed  ; 
(Save  Grandpapa's  dear  stiff  old  "  fist," 

Through  all  disguise  detected  ;) 

221 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

But  which  is  his,  —  her  young  Lothair's,  — 
Who  wooed  her  on  the  school-room  stairs 
With  three  sweet  cakes,  and  two  ripe  pears, 
In  one  neat  pile  collected  ? 

Tis  there,  be  sure.     Though  truth  to  speak, 

(If  truth  may  be  permitted), 
I  doubt  that  young  "  gift-bearing  Greek  " 

Is  scarce  for  fealty  fitted  ; 
For  has  he  not  (I  grieve  to  say), 
To  two  loves  more,  on  this  same  day, 
In  just  this  same  emblazoned  way, 

His  transient  vows  transmitted  ? 

He  may  be  true.     Yet,  Daisy  dear, 

That  even  youth  grows  colder 
You'll  find  is  no  new  thing,  I  fear; 

And  when  you're  somewhat  older, 
You'll  read  of  one  Dardanian  boy 
Who  "  wooed  with  gifts  "  a  maiden  coy,  — 
Then  took  the  morning  train  to  Troy, 

In  spite  of  all  he'd  told  her. 

But  wait.     Your  time  will  come.     And  then, 
Obliging  Fates,  please  send  her 

The  bravest  thing  you  have  in  men, 
Sound-hearted,  strong,  and  tender;  — 

222 


DAISY'S  VALENTINES. 

The  kind  of  man,  dear  Fates,  you  know, 
That  feels  how  shyly  Daisies  grow, 
And  what  soft  things  they  are,  and  so 
Will  spare  to  spoil  or  mend  her. 


223 


t/ERS  DE  SOCIETE. 


IN   TOWN. 

"  The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  fane."  — TENNYSON. 

HTOILING  in  Town  now  is  "  horrid/ 

(There  is  that  woman  again  !)  — 
June  in  the  zenith  is  torrid, 
Thought  gets  dry  in  the  brain. 

There  is  that  woman  again  : 

"  Strawberries  !  fourpence  a  pottle  ! ' 
Thought  gets  dry  in  the  brain  ; 

Ink  gets  dry  in  the  bottle. 

"  Strawberries  !  fourpence  a  pottle  I  " 
Oh  for  the  green  of  a  lane  !  — 

Ink  gets  dry  in  the  bottle  ; 

"  Buzz  "  goes  a  fly  in  the  pane  I 

Oh  for  the  green  of  a  lane, 

Where  one  might  lie  and  be  lazy  I 
"  Buzz  "  goes  a  fly  in  the  pane  ; 

Bluebottles  drive  me  crazy  ! 
224 


»       IN   7OWN. 

Where  one  might  lie  and  be  lazy, 
Careless  of  Town  and  all  in  it !  — 

Bluebottles  drive  me  crazy  : 
I  shall  go  mad  in  a  minute  ! 

Careless  of  Town  and  all  in  it, 

With  some  one  to  soothe  and  to  still  you 
I  shall  go  mad  in  a  minute  ; 

Bluebottle,  then  I  shall  kill  you  ! 


With  some  one  to  soothe  and  to  still  you, 
As  only  one's  feminine  kin  do,  — 

Bluebottle,  then  I  shall  kill  you  : 
There  now  !  I've  broken  the  window  ! 


As  only  one's  feminine  kin  do,  — 
Some  muslin-clad  Mabel  or  May  1  — 

There  now  1  I've  broken  the  window  ! 
Bluebottle's  off  and  away  ! 


Some  muslin-clad  Mabel  or  May, 
To  dash  one  with  eau  de  Cologne  ; 

Bluebottle's  off  and  away  ; 
And  why  should  I  stay  here  alone  ! 

VOL.  II.—  15  225, 


YERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

To  dash  one  with  eau  de  Cologne, 
All  over  one's  eminent  forehead  ; 

And  why  should  I  stay  here  alone  ! 
Toiling  in  Town  now  is  "  horrid.' 


226 


A  SONNET  IN  DIALOGUE. 


A  SONNET   IN    DIALOGUE. 

FRANK  (on  the  Lawn). 
to  the  Terrace,  May, — the  sun  is  low. 


^ 

MAY  (m  the  House). 
Thanks,  I  prefer  my  Browning  here  instead. 

FRANK. 
There  are  two  peaches  by  the  strawberry  bed. 

MAY. 
They  will  be  riper  if  we  let  them  grow. 

FRANK. 
Then  the  Park-aloe  is  in  bloom,  you  know. 

MAY. 

Also,  her  Majesty  Queen  Anne  is  dead. 

FRANK. 

But  surely,  May,  your  pony  must  be  fed. 
227 


DE  SOC1ETE. 


MAY. 

And  was,  and  is.     I  fed  him  hours  ago. 
Tis  useless,  Frank,  you  see  I  shall  not  stir. 

FRANK. 
Still,  I  had  something  you  would  like  to  hear. 

MAY. 
No  doubt  some  new  frivolity  of  men. 

FRANK. 

Nay,  —  'tis  a  thing  the  gentler  sex  deplores 
Chiefly,  I  think  .   .  . 

MAY  (coming  to  the  ivindow}. 

What  is  this  secret,  then  ? 

FRANK  (mysteriously). 
There  are  no  eyes  more  beautiful  than  yours  I 


228 


GROWING   GRAY, 


GROWING    GRAY. 

"  On  a  V&ge  de  son  cceur."  —  A.  D'HoUDETOT. 

A     LITTLE  more  toward  the  light ;  — 

Me  miserable  1     Here's  one  that's  white  ; 

And  one  that's  turning  ; 
Adieu  to  song  and  "  salad  days  ;  " 
My  Muse,  let's  go  at  once  to  Jay's, 
And  order  mourning. 

We  must  reform  our  rhymes,  my  Dear,  — 
Renounce  the  gay  for  the  severe,  — 

Be  grave,  not  witty  ; 
We  have,  no  more,  the  right  to  find 
That  Pyrrha's  hair  is  neatly  twined,  — 

That  Chloe's  pretty. 

Young  Love's  for  us  a  farce  that's  played  ; 
Light  canzonet  and  serenade 

No  more  may  tempt  us  ; 
Gray  hairs  but  ill  accord  with  dreams  ; 
From  aught  but  sour  didactic  themes 

Our  years  exempt  us. 
229 


MRS  DE  SOC1ETE. 

Indeed  1    you  really  fancy  so  ? 

You  think  for  one  white  streak  we  grow 

At  once  satiric  ? 

A  fiddlestick  !     Each  hair's  a  string 
To  which  our  ancient  Muse  shall  sing 

A  younger  lyric. 

The  heart's  still  sound.     Shall  "  cakes  and  ale 
Grow  rare  to  youth  because  ive  rail 

At  schoolboy  dishes  ? 
Perish  the  thought  1     'Tis  ours  to  chant 
When  neither  Time  nor  Tide  can  grant 

Belief  with  wishes. 


230 


VARIA. 


231 


THE   MALTWORM'S    MADRIGAL. 

T    DRINK,  of  the  Ale  of  Southwark,  I  drink  of 

the  Ale  of  Chepe  ; 
At  noon  I  dream  on  the  settle  ;  at  night  I  cannot 

sleep ; 
For  my  love,  my  love  it  groweth  ;  I  waste  me  all 

the  day ; 
And  when  I  see  sweet  Alison,  I   know  not  what 

to  say. 

The  sparrow  when  he  spieth  his  Dear  upon  the 

tree, 

He  beateth-to  his  little  wing  ;  he  chirketh  lustily; 
But  when  I  see  sweet  AlUon,  the  words  begin  to 

fail; 
I  wot  that  I  shall  die  of  Love  — an  I  die  not  of 

Ale. 


Her  lips  are  like  the  muscadel ;    her  brows  are 

black  as  ink  ; 
Her  eyes  are  bright  as  beryl  stones  that  in  the 

tankard  wink  ; 

233 


VARIA. 

But  when  she  sees  me  coming,  she  shrilleth  out 

—  "Te-Heel 
Fye  on  thy  ruddy  nose,  Cousin,  what  lackest  thou 

of  me  ? " 


"  Fye  on  thy  ruddy  nose,  Cousin  !    Why  be  thine 

eyes  so  small  ? 
Why  go  thy  legs  tap-lappetty  like  men  that  fear  to 

fall? 
Why  is  thy  leathern  doublet  besmeared  with  stain 

and  spot  ? 
Go  to.     Thou  art  no  man  (she  saith)  — thou  art 

a  Pottle-pot  1 " 


"No    man,"    i'faith.      "No    man  I"    she   saith. 

And  "  Pottle-pot"  thereto  1 
"  Thou    sleepest    like    our   dog   all   day  ;    thou 

drink'st  as  fishes  do." 
I  would  that  I  were  Tibb  the  dog ;  he  wags  at 

her  his  tail ; 
Or  would  that  I  were  fish,  perdy,  and  all  the  sea 

were  Ale  1 


So  I  drink  of  the  Ale  of  Southwark,  I  drink  of 
the  Ale  of  Chepe  ; 
234 


THE  MALTWORM'S  MADRIGAL 

All  day  I  dream  in  the  sunlight ;   I  dream  and  eke 

I  weep, 

But  little  lore  of  loving  can  any  flagon  teach, 
For  when  my  tongue  is  loosed  most,  then  most  I 

lose  my  speech. 


235 


VARIA. 


AN    APRIL    PASTORAL. 

He. 

YX7HITHER  away,  fair  Neat-herdess  ? 

She.     Shepherd,  I  go  to  tend  my  kine. 

He.     Stay  thou,  and  watch  this  flock  of  mine. 
She.     With  thee  ?     Nay,  that  were  idleness. 

He.     Thy  kine  will  pasture  none  the  less. 
She.     Not  so  :  they  wait  me  and  my  sign. 

He.     I'll  pipe  to  thee  beneath  the  pine. 
She.     Thy  pipe  will  soothe  not  their  distress. 

He.      Dost  thou  not  hear  beside  the  spring 

How  the  gay  birds  are  carolling  ? 
She.     I  hear  them.     But  it  may  not  be. 

He.     Farewell  then.  Sweetheart  1    Farewell  now. 
She.     Shepherd,  farewell Where  goest  thou  ? 

He.     I  go  .  .  to  tend  thy  kine  for  thee  ! 


236 


A  NEW  SONG  OF  THE  SPRING  GARDENS. 


A    NEW    SONG    OF    THE    SPRING 
GARDENS. 

To  the  Burden  of  "Rogues  All." 

/^OME  hither  ye  gallants,  come  hither  ye  maids, 
To  the  trim  gravelled  walks,  to  the  shady 

arcades ; 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  the  nightingales  call ;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  —  Vauxhall !    Vauxhall ! 

Come  hither,  ye  cits,  from  your  Lothbury  hives ! 
Come   hither,  ye   husbands,   and   look   to    your 

wives  ! 
For  the  sparks  are  as  thick  as  the  leaves  in  the 

Mall;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  — Vauxhall  !    Vauxhall  I 

Here   the   'prentice   from    Aldgate   may   ogle  a 

Toast ! 
Here  his  Worship  must  elbow  the  knight  of  the 

post ! 

For  the  wicket  is  free  to  the  great  and  the  small ;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  —  Vauxhall  1    Vauxhall ! 
237 


VARIA. 

Here  Betty  may  flaunt  in  her  mistress's  sack  ! 
Here  Trip  wear  his  master's  brocade  on  his  back  I 
Here  a  hussy  may  ride,  and  a  rogue  take  the 

wall ;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  —  Vauxhall  1    Vauxhall ! 

Here  Beauty  may  grant,  and  here  Valour  may  ask ! 
Here  the  plainest  may  pass  for  a  Belle  (in  a 

mask)  ! 

Here  a  domino  covers  the  short  and  the  tall ;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  —  Vauxhall !    Vauxhall  1 

'Tis  a  type  of  the  world,  with  its  drums  and  its  din ; 
'Tis  a  type  of  the  world,  for  when  once  you  come  in 
You  are  loth  to  go  out ;  like  the  world  'tis  a  ball ;  — 
Sing  Tantarara,  —  Vauxhall !  Vauxhall ! 


238 


A  LOW-SONG. 
A    LOVE-SONG. 

(XVIII.    CENT.) 

"VX  7" HEN  first  in  CELIA'S  ear  I  poured 

A  yet  unpractised  pray'r, 
My  trembling  tongue  sincere  ignored 

The  aids  of  "  sweet"  and  "  fair." 
I  only  said,  as  in  me  lay, 

I'd  strive  her  "  worth  "  to  reach  ; 
She  frowned,  and  turned  her  eyes  away,  - 

So  much  for  truth  in  speech. 

Then  DELIA  came.     I  changed  my  plan  ; 

I  praised  her  to  her  face  ; 
I  praised  her  features,  —  praised  her  fan, 

Her  lap-dog  and  her  lace  ; 
I  swore  that  not  till  Time  were  dead 

My  passion  should  decay  ; 
She,  smiling,  gave  her  hand,  and  said 

'Twill  last  then  —  for  a  DAY. 


239 


VAR1A. 


OF    HIS    MISTRESS. 

(After  Anthony  Hamilton.) 
To  G.  S. 

O  HE  that  I  love  is  neither  brown  nor  fair, 

And,  in  a  word  her  worth  to  say, 
There  is  no  maid  that  with  her  may 
Compare. 

Yet  of  her  charms  the  count  is  clear,  I  ween  : 
There  are  five  hundred  things  we  see, 
And  then  five  hundred  too  there  be, 
Not  seen. 

Her  wit,  her  wisdom  are  direct  from  Heaven  : 
But  the  sweet  Graces  from  their  store 
A  thousand  finer  touches  more 
Have  given. 

Her  cheek's  warm  dye  what  painter's  brush  could 

note  ? 

Beside  her  Flora  would  be  wan 
And  white  as  whiteness  of  the  swan 

Her  throat. 
240 


OF  HIS   MISTRESS. 

Her  supple  waist,  her  arm  from  Venus  came, 
Hebe  her  nose  and  lip  confess, 
And,  looking  in  her  eyes,  you  guess 
Her  name. 


VOL.    II.  —  l6 


241 


VARIA. 
THE    NAMELESS   CHARM. 

{Expanded  from  an  Epigram  of  Fir  on.) 

(T  TELLA,  'tis  not  your  dainty  head, 

Your  artless  look,  I  own  ; 
Tis  not  your  dear  coquettish  tread, 
Or  this,  or  that,  alone  ; 

Nor  is  it  all  your  gifts  combined  ; 

'Tis  something  in  your  face,  — 
The  untranslated,  undefined, 

Uncertainty  of  grace, 

That  taught  the  Boy  on  Ida's  hill 
To  whom  the  meed  was  due  ; 

All  three  have  equal  charms  —  but  still 
This  one  I  give  it  to  ! 


242 


TO  PHIDYLE. 

TO    PHIDYLE. 

(HOR.  in.,  23.) 

INCENSE,  and  flesh  of  swine,  and  this  year's 

grain, 

At  the  new  moon,  with  suppliant  hands,  bestow, 
O  rustic  Phidyle  1     So  naught  shall  know 
Thy  crops  of  blight,  thy  vine  of  Afric  bane, 
And  hale  the  nurslings  of  thy  flock  remain 
Through  the  sick  apple-tide.     Fit  victims  grow 
'Twixt  holm  and  oak  upon  the  Algid  snow, 
Or  Alban  grass,  that  with  their  necks  must  stain 
The  Pontiffs  axe  :  to  thee  can  scarce  avail 
Thy  modest  gods  with  much  slain  to  assail. 
Whom  myrtle  crowns  and  rosemary  can  please. 
Lay  on  the  altar  a  hand  pure  of  fault ; 
More  than  rich  gifts  the  Powers  it  shall  appease, 
Though  pious  but  with  meal  and  crackling  salt. 


243 


VARIA. 

TO    HIS    BOOK. 

(HOR.  EP.  i.,  20.) 

"ITOR  mart  and  street  you  seem  to  pine 

With  restless  glances,  Book  of  mine  ! 
Still  craving  on  some  stall  to  stand, 
Fresh  pumiced  from  the  binder's  hand. 
You  chafe  at  locks,  and  burn  to  quit 
Your  modest  haunt  and  audience  fit 
For  hearers  less  discriminate. 
I  reared  you  up  for  no  such  fate. 
Still,  if  you  must  be  published,  go  ; 
But  mind,  you  can't  come  back,  you  know  ! 

"What  have  I  done?"  I  hear  you  cry, 
And  writhe  beneath  some  critic's  eye  ; 
"  What  did  I  want  ? "  —  when,  scarce  polite, 
They  do  but  yawn,  and  roll  you  tight. 
And  yet  methinks,  if  I  may  guess 
(Putting  aside  your  heartlessness 
In  leaving  me  and  this  your  home), 
You  should  find  favour,  too,  at  Rome. 
That  is,  they'll  like  you  while  you're  young, 

When  you  are  old,  you'll  pass  among 
244 


TO  HIS  BOOK. 

The  Great  Unwashed,  —  then  thumbed  and  sped, 

Be  fretted  of  slow  moths,  unread, 

Or  to  Ilerda  you'll  be  sent, 

Or  Utica,  for  banishment! 

And  I,  whose  counsel  you  disdain, 

At  that  your  lot  shall  laugh  amain, 

Wryly,  as  he  who,  like  a  fool, 

Thrust  o'er  the  cliff  his  restive  mule. 

Nay  !  there  is  worse  behind.     In  age 

They  e'en  may  take  your  babbling  page 

In  some  remotest  "  slum  "  to  teach 

Mere  boys  their  rudiments  of  speech  ! 

But  go.     When  on  warm  days  you  see 
A  chance  of  listeners,  speak  of  me. 
Tell  them  I  soared  from  low  estate, 
A  freedman's  son,  to  higher  fate 
(That  is,  make  up  to  me  in  worth 
What  you  must  take  in  point  of  birth)  ; 
Then  tell  them  that  I  won  renown 
In  peace  and  war,  and  pleased  the  town  ; 
Paint  me  as  early  gray,  and  one 
Little  of  stature,  fond  of  sun, 
Quick-tempered,  too,  — but  nothing  more. 
Add  (if  they  ask)  I'm  forty-four, 
Or  was,  the  year  that  over  us 
Both  Lollius  ruled  and  Lepidus. 
245 


VARIA. 


FOR   A    COPY   OF    HERRICK. 

A/1  ANY  days  have  come  and  gone, 
Many  suns  have  set  and  shone, 
HERRICK,  since  thou  sang'st  of  Wake, 
Morris-dance  and  Barley-break  ;  — 
Many  men  have  ceased  from  care, 
Many  maidens  have  been  fair, 
Since  thou  sang'st  of  JULIA'S  eyes, 
JULIA'S  lawns  and  tiffanies  ;  — 
Many  things  are  past :  but  thou, 
GOLDEN-MOUTH,  art  singing  now, 
Singing  clearly  as  of  old, 
And  thy  numbers  are  of  gold  1 


246 


WITH  A   VOLUME  OF  I/ERSE. 


WITH    A   VOLUME   OF   VERSE. 

A  BOUT  the  ending  of  the  Ramadan, 

When  leanest  grows  the  famished  Mussulman, 
A  haggard  ne'er-do-well,  Mahmoud  by  name, 
At  the  tenth  hour  to  Caliph  OMAR  came. 
"  Lord  of  the  Faithful  (quoth  he),  at  the  last 
The  long  moon  waneth,  and  men  cease  to  fast ; 
Hard  then,  O  hard  !  the  lot  of  him  must  be, 
Who  spares  to  eat  ...  but  not  for  piety  !  " 
'•  Hast  thou no  calling,  Friend  r" — the  Caliph  said. 
"  Sir,  I  make  verses  for  my  daily  bread." 
"Verse!"  —  answered   OMAR.      "  Tis  a  dish. 

indeed, 

Whereof  but  scantily  a  man  may  feed. 
Go.     Learn  the  Tenter's  or  the  Potter's  Art,  — 
Verse  is  a  drug  not  sold  in  any  mart." 

/  know  not  if  that  hungry  Mahmoud  died ; 
But  this  I  know  —  he  must  have  versified, 
For,  with  his  race,  from  better  still  to  worse, 
The  plague  of  writing  follows  like  a  curse ; 
And  men  will  scribble  though  they  fail  to  dine, 

Which  is  the  Moral  of  more  Books  than  mine. 
247 


VARIA. 


FOR  THE   AVERY    "KNICKER- 
BOCKER." 

(WITH    ORIGINAL    DRAWINGS    BY    G.    H.    BOUGHTON. 


SH; 


ADE  of  Herrick,  Muse  of  Locker, 
Help  me  sing  of  Knickerbocker  ! 


BOUGHTON,  had  you  bid  me  chant 
Hymns  to  Peter  Stuyvesant  ! 
Had  you  bid  me  sing  of  Wouter, 
He,  the  onion-head,  the  doubter  ! 
But  to  rhyme  of  this  one,  —  Mocker  ! 
Who  shall  rhyme  to  Knickerbocker  } 


Nay,  but  where  my  hand  must  fail 
There  the  more  shall  yours  avail  ; 
You  shall  take  your  brush  and  paint 
All  that  ring  of  figures  quaint,  — 
All  those  Rip-van-Winkle  jokers,  — 
All  those  solid-looking  smokers, 
Pulling  at  their  pipes  of  amber 

In  the  dark-beamed  Council-Chamber. 
248 


FOR   THE  A  VERY  "KNICKERBOCKER' 

Only  art  like  yours  can  touch 
Shapes  so  dignified  .   .   .  and  Dutch  ; 
Only  art  like  yours  can  show 
How  the  pine-logs  gleam  and  glow, 
Till  the  fire-light  laughs  and  passes 
'Twixt  the  tankards  and  the  glasses, 
Touching  with  responsive  graces 
All  those  grave  Batavian  faces,  — 
Making  bland  and  beatific 
All  that  session  soporific. 


Then  I  come  and  write  beneath, 
BOUGHTON,  he  deserves  the  wreath  ; 
He  can  give  us  form  and  hue  — 
This  the  Muse  can  never  do  ! 


249 


VARIA 

TO    A    PASTORAL    POET. 

(H.  E.  B.) 

A  MONG  my  best  I  put  your  Book, 
O  Poet  of  the  breeze  and  brook  ! 
(That  breeze  and  brook  which  blows  and  falls 
More  soft  to  those  in  city  walls) 
Among  my  best  :  and  keep  it  still 
Till  down  the  fair  grass-girdled  hill, 
Where  slopes  my  garden-slip,  there  goes 
The  wandering  wind  that  wakes  the  rose, 
And  scares  the  cohort  that  explore 
The  broad-faced  sun-flower  o'er  and  o'er, 
Or  starts  the  restless  bees  that  fret 
The  bindweed  and  the  mignonette. 

Then  I  shall  take  your  Book,  and  dream 
I  lie  beside  some  haunted  stream  ; 
And  watch  the  crisping  waves  that  pass, 
And  watch  the  flicker  in  the  grass  ; 
And  wait  —  and  wait  —  and  wait  to  see 
The  Nymph  .   .   .  that  never  comes  to  me  ! 


250 


"S4T  EST  SCRIPS1SSE." 
''SAT    EST  SCRIPSISSE.11 

(TO    E.    G.,    WITH    A    COLLECTION    OF    ESSAYS.) 

"\~X7HEN  You  and   I  have  wandered  beyond 

the  reach  of  call, 
And  all  our  Works  immortal  lie  scattered  on  the 

Stall, 

It  may  be  some  new  Reader,  in  that  remoter  age, 
Will  find  the  present  volume  and  listless  turn  the 

page. 

For  him  I  speak  these  verses.  And,  Sir  (I  say 
to  him), 

This  Book  you  see  before  you,  —  this  master- 
piece of  Whim 

Of  Wisdom,  Learning,  Fancy  (if  you  will,  please, 
attend),  — 

Was  written  by  its  Author,  who  gave  it  to  his 
Friend. 

For  they  had  worked  together,  been  Comrades 

of  the  Pen; 
They  had  their  points  at  issue,  they  differed  now 

and  then  ; 


VARIA. 

But  both  loved  Song  and  Letters,  and  each  had 

close  at  heart 
The  hopes,  the  aspirations,  the  •'  dear  delays"  of 

Art. 

And  much  they  talked  of   Measures  and    more 

they  talked  of  Style, 
Of  Form  and  "  lucid  Order,"  of  "  labour  of  the 

File  ;  " 
And  he  who  wrote  the  writing,  as  sheet  by  sheet 

was  penned 
(This  all  was  long  ago,  Sir  !),   would  read  it  to 

his  friend. 

They  knew  not,  nor  cared  greatly,  if  they  were 

spark  or  star  ; 
They  knew  to  move  is  somewhat,  although  the 

goal  be  far  ; 
And  larger  light   or  lesser,  this  thing  at  least  is 

clear. 
They  served  the  Muses  truly,  —  their  service  was 

sincere. 

This  tattered  page  you  see,  Sir,  this  page  alone 

remains 
(Yes,  —  fourpence  is   the  lowest!)  of  all   those 

pleasant  pains  ; 

252 


EST  SCRIPSISSE." 


And  as  for  him  that  read  it,  and  as  for  him  that 

wrote, 
No  Golden  Book  enrolls  them  among  its  "  Names 

of  Note." 

And  yet  they  had  their  office.     Though  they  to- 

day are  passed, 
They  marched  in  that  procession  where  is  no  first 

or  last  ; 
Though  cold  is  now  their  hoping,  though  they  no 

more  aspire, 
They  too  had  once  their  ardour  —  they  handed 

on  the  fire. 


253 


PROLOGUES   AND   EPILOGUES. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ABBEY'S   EDITION  OF 
"SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER." 

TN  the  year  Seventeen  Hundred  and  Seventy 

and  Three, 
When  the  GEORGES  were  ruling  o'er  Britain  the 

free, 
There  was  played  a  new  play,  on  a  new-fashioned 

plan, 
By  the  GOLDSMITH  who  brought  out  the  Good- 

Natur'd  Man. 

New-fashioned,  in  truth  —  for  this  play,  it  appears, 
Dealt  largely  in  laughter,  and  nothing  in  tears, 
While  the  type  of  those  days,  as  the  learned  will 

tell  ye, 
Was  the  CUMBERLAND  whine  or  the  whimper  of 

KELLY. 
So  the  Critics  pooh-poohed,  and  the  Actresses 

pouted, 
And    the    Public  were   cold,  and    the    Manager 

doubted  ; 
But  the  Author  had  friends,  and  they  all  went  to 

see  it. 
Shall  we  join  them  in  fancy  ?     You  answer,  So 

be  it! 
VOL.  ii.— 17  257 


PROLOGUE  AND  ENl/OI  TO 

Imagine  yourself  then,  good  Sir,  in  a  wig. 
Either  grizzle  or  bob  —  never  mind,  you  look  big. 
You've  a  sword  at  your  side,  in  your  shoes  there 

are  buckles, 

And  the  folds  of  fine  linen  flap  over  your  knuckles. 
You  have  come  with  light  heart,  and  with  eyes 

that  are  brighter, 

From  a  pint  of  red  Port,  and  a  steak  at  the  Mitre  ; 
You  have  strolled  from  the  Bar  and  the  purlieus 

of  Fleet, 
And   you  turn  from  the  Strand  into  Catherine 

Street ; 

Thence  climb  to  the  law-loving  summits  of  Bow, 
Till  you  stand  at  the  Portal  all  play-goers  know. 
See,  here   are  the  'prentice   lads   laughing  and 

pushing, 
And    here   are    the   seamstresses   shrinking  and 

blushing, 

And  here  are  the  urchins  who,  just  as  to-day,  Sir, 
Buzz  at  you  like  flies  with  their  "  Bill  o'  the  Play, 

Sir?" 
Yet  you  take  one,  no  less,  and  you  squeeze  by 

the  Chairs, 
With  their  freights  of  fine  ladies,  and  mount  up 

the  stairs  ; 

So  issue  at  last  on  the  House  in  its  pride, 
And  pack  yourself  snug  in  a  box  at  the  side. 
258 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER. 

Here  awhile  let  us  pause  to  take  breath  as  we  sit, 
Surveying  the  humours  and  pranks  of  the  Pit,  — 
With  its  Babel  of  chatterers  buzzing  and  humming, 
With  its  impudent  orange-girls  going  and  coming, 
With  its  endless  surprises  of  face  and  of  feature, 
All  grinning  as  one  in  a  gust  of  good-nature. 
Then  we  turn  to  the  Boxes  where  TRIP  in  his  lace 
Is  aping  his  master,  and  keeping  his  place. 
Do  but  note  how  the  Puppy  flings  back  with  a 

yawn, 

Like  a  Duke  at  the  least,  or  a  Bishop  in  lawn  ! 
Then  sniffs  at  his  bouquet,  whips  round  with  a 

smirk, 

And  ogles  the  ladies  at  large  —  like  a  Turk. 
But  the  music  comes  in,  and  the  blanks  are  all 

filling, 

And  TRIP  must  trip  up  to  the  seats  at  a  shilling  ; 
And  spite  of  the  mourning  that  most  of  us  wear 
The  House  takes  a  gay  and  a  holiday  air  ; 
For  the  fair  sex  are  clever  at  turning  the  tables, 
And  seem  to  catch  coquetry  even  in  sables. 
Moreover,  your  mourning  has  ribbons  and  stars, 
And  is  sprinkled  about  with  the  red  coats  of  Mars. 

Look,  look,  there  is  WILKES  !     You  may  tell  by 

the  squint ; 
But  he  grows  every  day  more  and  more  like  the 

'59 


PROLOGUE  AND  ENfOI  TO 

(Ah  1    HOGARTH  could  draw !)  ;    and   behind   at 

the  back 

HUGH  KELLY,  who  looks  all  the  blacker  in  black. 
That  is  CUMBERLAND  next,  and  the  prim-looking 

person 

In  the  corner,  I  take  it,  is  Ossian  MACPHERSON. 
And  rolling  and  blinking,  here,  too,  with  the  rest, 
Comes  sturdy  old  JOHNSON,  dressed  out  in  his 

best ; 
How  he  shakes  his  old  noddle  I      I'll  wager  a 

crown, 

Whatever  the  law  is  he's  laying  it  down  I 
Beside  him  is  REYNOLDS,  who's  deaf;   and  the 

hale 

Fresh,  farmer-like  fellow,  I  fancy,  is  THRALE. 
There  is  BURKE  with  GEORGE  STEEVENS.     And 

somewhere,  no  doubt, 
Is  the  AUTHOR  —  too  nervous  just  now  to  come 

out ; 
He's  a  queer  little  fellow,  grave-featured,  pock- 

pitten, 
Tho'  they  say,  in  his  cups,  he's  as  gay  as  a  kitten. 

But  where  is  our  play-bill  ?    Mistakes  of  a  Night ! 

If  the  title's  prophetic,  I  pity  his  plight  I 

She  Stoops.     Let  us  hope  she  won't  fall  at  full 

length, 
For  the  piece  —  so  'tis  whispered  —  is  wanting  in 

strength.  26o 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

And  the  humour  is  "  low  !  "  —  you  are  doubtless 

aware 

There's  a  character,  even,  that  "dances  a  bear !  " 
Then  the  cast  is  so  poor,  —  neither  marrow  nor 

pith  ! 
Why  can't  they  get  WOODWARD  or  Gentleman 

SMITH  ! 
"LEE    LEWES!"     Who's   LEWES?     The  fellow 

has  played 

Nothing  better,  they  tell  me,  than  harlequinade ! 
"  DUBELLAMY  "  —  "  QUICK,"  —  these    are    no- 
bodies.     Stay,  I 

Believe  I  saw  QUICK  once  in  Beau  Mordecai. 
Yes,  QUICK  is  not  bad.      Mrs.  GREEN,  too,  is 

funny  ; 
But  SHUTER,   ah  1    SHUTER'S   the   man   for    my 

money  1 
He's   the   quaintest,   the   oddest   of  mortals,   is 

SHUTER, 
And  he  has  but  one  fault  —  he's  too  fond  of  the 

pewter. 
Then  there's  little  BULKELY  . 


But  here  in  the  middle, 

From  the  orchestra  comes  the  first  squeak  of  a 
fiddle. 


PROLOGUE  AND  ENVOI  TO 

Then  the  bass  gives  a  growl,  and  the  horn  makes 

a  dash, 

And  the  music  begins  with  a  flourish  and  crash, 
And    away    to    the    zenith    goes    swelling    and 

swaying, 
While  we  tap  on  the  box  to  keep  time  to  the 

playing. 
And  we  hear  the  old  tunes  as  they  follow  and 

mingle, 
Till  at  last  from  the  stage  comes  a  ting-a-ting 

tingle  ; 
And  the  fans  cease  to  whirr,  and  the  House  for  a 

minute 
Grows   still  as  if  naught  but  wax  figures  were 

in  it. 
Then  an   actor   steps  out,   and  the  eyes   of  all 

glisten. 
Who  is  it?   The  Prologue.    He's  sobbing.    Hush! 

listen. 


{Thereupon  enters  Mr.  Woodward  in  black, 
with  a  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  to  speak 
Garricks  Prologue,  after  which  comes  the 
play.  In  the  volume  for  which  the  fore- 
going additional  Prologue  was  written 
the  following  Envoi  was  added.] 
262 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER. 
L'ENVOI. 

f'OOD-BYE  to  you,  KELLY,  your  fetters  are 
broken  ! 

Good-bye  to  you,  CUMBERLAND,  GOLDSMITH  has 
spoken  ! 

Good-bye  to  sham  Sentiment,  moping  and  mum- 
ming, 

For  GOLDSMITH  has  spoken  and  SHERIDAN'S 
coming  ; 

And  the  frank  Muse  of  Comedy  laughs  in  free 
air 

As  she  laughed  with  the  Great  Ones,  with 
SHAKESPEARE,  MOLIERE  1 


263 


PROLOGUE  AND  EPILOGUE   TO 


PROLOGUE    TO    ABBEY'S    "QUIET 
LIFE.1' 

"C*  YEN  as  one  in  city  pent, 

Dazed  with  the  stir  and  din  of  town, 
Drums  on  the  pane  in  discontent, 

And  sees  the  dreary  rain  come  down, 
Yet,  through  the  dimmed  and  dripping  glass, 
Beholds,  in  fancy,  visions  pass, 
Of  Spring  that  breaks  with  all  her  leaves. 
Of  birds  that  build  in  thatch  and  eaves, 
Of  woodlands  where  the  throstle  calls, 
Of  girls  that  gather  cowslip  balls, 
Of  kine  that  low,  and  lambs  that  cry, 
Of  wains  that  jolt  and  rumbie  by, 
Of  brooks  that  sing  by  brambiy  ways, 
Of  sunburned  folk  that  stand  at  gaze, 
Of  all  the  dreams  with  which  men  cheat 
The  stony  sermons  of  the  street, 
So,  in  its  hour,  the  artist  brain 

Weary  of  human  ills  and  woes, 
Weary  of  passion,  and  of  pain, 

And  vaguely  craving  for  repose, 
Deserts  awhile  the  stage  of  strife 

To  draw  the  even,  ordered  life, 
264 


JBBEY'S  "QUIET  LIFE." 

The  easeful  days,  the  dreamless  nights, 
The  homely  round  of  plain  delights, 
The  calm,  the  unambitioned  mind, 
Which  all  men  seek,  and  few  men  find. 

EPILOGUE. 

Let  the  dream  pass,  the  fancy  fade  1 
We  clutch  a  shape,  and  hold  a  shade. 
Is  Peace  so  peaceful  ?    Nay,  —  who  knows  ! 
There  are  volcanoes  under  snows. 


265 


TN  after  days  when  grasses  high 

O'er-top  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie, 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honoured  dust, 
I  shall  not  question  or  reply. 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sky  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  night-wind  sigh  ; 
/  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days  ! 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  were  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 

Saying  —  "  He  held  his  pen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust.n 
Will  none  ?  —  Then  let  my  memory  die 
In  after  days  ! 


267 


NOTES. 


269 


NOTES. 


"  To  brandish  the  poles  of  that  old  Sedan  Chair  /"  —  PAGE  7. 

A   FRIENDLY  critic,  whose  versatile  pen  is  not  easy 
to  mistake,  recalls,  a-propos  of  the  above,  the  follow- 
ing passage  from  Moliere,  which  shows  that  Chairmen  are 
much  the  same  all  the  world  over  :  — 

i  Porteur  (prenant  un  des  batons  de  sa  chaise).     Qa, 
payez-nous  vitemcnt ! 
Mascarille.     Quoi ! 

i  Porteur.  Jedis  que  j e  veux  avoir  deT argent  tout  dThenre. 
Mascarille.     //  est  raisonnable,  celtti-la,  etc. 

Les  Precieuses  Ridicules,  Sc.  vii. 

"  //  has  -waited  by  portals  -where  Garrick  has  played"  — 
PAGE  8. 

According  to  Mrs.  Carter  (Smith's  Nollekens,  1828,  i. 
21 1 ),  when  Garrick  acted,  the  hackney-chairs  often  stood 
"  all  round  the  Piazzas  [Covent  Garden],  down  Southamp- 
ton-Street, and  extended  more  than  half-way  along  Maiden- 
Lane." 

"  A  skill  Preville  could  not  disown."  —  PAGE  23. 
Preville  was  the  French  Foote,  circa  1760.     His  gifts  as 
a  comedian  were  of  the  highest  order ;  and  he  had  an  ex- 
traordinary faculty  for  identifying  himself  with  the  parts  he 
played.     Sterne,  in  a  letter  to  Garrick  from  Paris,  in  1762, 
calls  him  "  Mercury  himself." 
271 


NOTES. 

MOLLY  TREFUSIS  —  PAGE  32. 

The  epigram  here  quoted  from  "  an  old  magazine  "  is  to 
be  found  in  the  late  Lord  Neaves's  admirable  little  volume, 
The  Greek  Anthology  (BlackwoocTs  Ancient  Classics  for  Eng- 
lish Readers).  Those  familiar  with  eighteenth-century  liter- 
ature will  recognize  in  the  succeeding  verses  but  another 
echo  of  those  lively  stanzas  of  John  Gay  to  "  Molly  Mogg 
of  the  Rose,"  which  found  so  many  imitators  in  his  own 
day.  Whether  my  heroine  is  to  be  identified  with  a  certain 
"  Miss  Trefusis,"  whose  Poems  are  sometimes  to  be  found 
in  the  second-hand  booksellers'  catalogues,  I  know  not. 
But  if  she  is,  I  trust  I  have  done  her  accomplished  shade 
no  wrong. 

AN  EASTERN  APOLOGUE.  —  PAGE  43. 

The  initials  "  E.  H.  P."  are  those  of  the  late  eminent 
(and  ill-fated)  Orientalist,  Professor  Palmer.  As  my  lines 
entirely  owed  their  origin  to  his  translations  of  Zoheir,  I 
sent  them  to  him.  He  was  indulgent  enough  to  praise  them 
warmly.  It  is  true  he  found  anachronisms ;  but  as  he  said 
these  would  cause  no  disturbance  to  orthodox  Persians,  I 
concluded  I  had  succeeded  in  my  little  pastiche,  and,  with 
his  permission,  inscribed  it  to  him.  I  wish  now  that  it  had 
been  a  more  worthy  tribute  to  one  of  the  most  erudite  and 
versatile  scholars  this  age  has  seen. 

A  REVOLUTIONARY  RELIC.  —  PAGE  48. 

"373-  ST.  PIERRE  (Bernardin  de),  Panlet  Virginie,  I2mo, 
old  calf.  Paris,  1787.  This  copy  is  pierced  throughout  by 
a  bullet-hole,  and  bears  on  one  of  the  covers  the  words  :  '  a 
Lucile  St.  A.  .  .  .  chez  Af  Batemans,  a  Edmonds- Bury,  en 
Angleterre,'  very  faintly  written  in  pencil."  (Extract  from 

Catalogue  ) 

272 


NOTES. 

"  Dtd  she  wander  like  that  other  ?"  —  PAGE  50. 

Lucile  Desmoulins.  See  Carlyle's  French  Revolution, 
Book  vi.  Chap.  ii. 

"  And  its  tender  rain  shall  lave  it."  —  PAGE  52. 

It  is  by  no  means  uncommon  for  an  editor  to  interrupt 
some  of  these  revolutionary  letters  by  a  "  Here  there  are 
traces  of  tears." 

"  By  '  Bysshe?  his  epithet."  —  PAGE  81. 
i.e.    The  Art  of  English  Poetry,  by  Edward  Bysshe,  1702. 

THE  BOOK-PLATE'S  PETITION.  —  PAGE  87. 

These  lines  were  reprinted  from  Notes  and  Queries  in 
Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  delightful  volume  The  Library,  1881, 
where  the  curious  will  find  full  information  as  to  the  enor- 
mities of  the  book-mutilators. 

"  Have  I  not  -writ  thy  Laws  ?  "  —  PAGE  93. 
The  lines  in  italic  type   which  follow,  are  freely  para 
phrased  from  the  ancient  Code  a" Amour  of  the  Xllth  Cen- 
tury, as  given  by  Andre  le  Chapelain  himself. 

A  DIALOGUE,  ETC.  —  PAGE  107. 

This  dialogue,  first  printed  in  Scribner's  Magazine  for  M.a.yt 
1888,  was  afterwards  read  by  Professor  Henry  Morley  at  the 
opening  of  the  Pope  Loan  Museum  at  Twickenham  (July 
3ist),  to  the  Catalogue  of  which  exhibition  it  was  prefixed. 

"  The  '  crooked  Body  with  a  crooked  Mind.' "  —  PAGE  108. 

"  Mens  curva  in  corpore  curve." 

Said  of  Pope  by  Lord  Orrery. 
VOL.  ii.  —  iS  273 


NOTES. 

"  Neither  as  LOCKE  was,  nor  as  BLAKE."  —  PAGE  115. 

The  Shire  Hall  at  Taunton,  where  these  verses  were  read 
at  the  unveiling,  by  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  of  Miss 
Margaret  Thomas's  bust  of  Fielding,  September  4th,  1883, 
also  contains  busts  of  Admiral  Blake  and  John  Locke. 

"  The  Journal  of  his  middle-age."  —  PAGE  118. 

It  is,  perhaps,  needless  to  say  that  the  reference  here  is 
to  the  Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon,  published  posthumously 
in  February,  1755,  —  a  record  which  for  its  intrinsic  pathos 
and  dignity  may  be  compared  with  the  letter  and  dedication 
which  Fielding's  predecessor  and  model,  Cervantes,  pre- 
fixed to  his  last  romance  of  Persiles  and Sigismunda. 

CHARLES  GEORGE  GORDON.  —  PAGE  120. 
These  verses  appeared  in  the  Saturday  Rez'iew  for  Feb- 
ruary I4th,  1885. 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON.  —  PAGE  122. 

These  verses  appeared  in  the  Athen&um  for  October  8th, 
1892. 

"  With  that  he  made  a  Leg.1'  —  PAGE  137. 

"  JOVE  made  his  Leg  and  kiss'd  the  Dame, 
Obsequious  HERMES  did  the  Same." 

PRIOR. 

"  So  took  his  Virtu  off  to  Cock's."  —  PAGE  137. 

Cock,  the  auctioneer  of  Covent  Garden,  was  the  Christie 
and  Manson  of  the  last  century.  The  leading  idea  of  this 
fable,  it  should  be  added,  is  taken  from  one  by  Gellert. 

274 


NOTES. 

"  Of  Van's  '  Goose- Pie.'  "  —  PAGE  139. 

"  At  length  they  in  the  Rubbish  spy 
A  Thing  resembling  a  Goose  Py." 

SWIFF'S  verses  on  Vanbrugh's  House,  1706. 

"  The  Oaf  preferred  the  '  Tongs  and  Bones.'"  —  PAGE  145. 

"  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music  ;  let  us  have  the 
tongs  and  the  bones." 

Midsummer-Night 's  Dream,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  i. 

"  And  sighed  oer  Chaos  -wine  for  Stingo  " —  PAGE  145 
Squire  Homespun  probably  meant  Cahors. 

THE  WATER-CURE.  —  PAGE  178. 

These  verses  were  suggested  by  the  recollection  of  an 
anecdote  in  Madame  de  Genlis,  which  seemed  to  lend  itself 
to  eighteenth-century  treatment.  It  was  therefore  somewhat 
depressing,  not  long  after  they  were  written,  to  find  that  the 
subject  had  already  been  annexed  in  the  Taller  by  an  actual 
eighteenth-century  writer,  who,  moreover,  claimed  to  have 
founded  his  story  on  a  contemporary  incident.  Burton, 
nevertheless,  had  told  it  before  him,  as  early  as  1621,  in  the 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

"  In  Babylonian  numbers  hid  Jen.'''  —  PAGE  180. 

"  —  nee  Babylonios 
Tentaris  numeros." 

HOR.  i.,  n. 

"  And  spite  of  the  mourning  that  most  of  us  wear."  — 
PAGE  253. 

In  March,   1773,  when  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  first 
275 


NOTES. 

played,  there  was  a  court-mourning  for  the  King  of  Sardinia 
(Forster's  Goldsmith,  Book  iv.  Chap.  15). 

"  But  he  grows  every  day  more  and  more  like  the  print.  — 
PAGE  253. 

"  Mr.  IVilkes,  with  his  usual  good  humour,  has  been  heard 
to  observe,  that  he  is  every  day  growing  more  and  more  like 
his  portrait  by  Hogarth  (i.e.  the  print  of  May  i6th,  1763]." 
Biographical  Anecdotes  of  William  Hogarth,  1782, 
pp.  305-6. 


276 


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